


None but the lonely heart

by Rinna



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Romance Novel, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Multi, Pining, Pining John, Romance, Slow Build, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-09
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:59:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinna/pseuds/Rinna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having been wounded in battle, John Watson returns home to his family in the countryside to do what a gentleman is supposed to do - marry a wealthy lady or gentleman of high social standing. Sherlock Holmes, one of his new acquaintances, is very rich and very well known but proud, eccentric and generally deemed unpleasant. He is also more interested in solving murders, which suddenly seem to be occuring with alarming frequency in the otherwise so quiet town...<br/>Pride & Prejudice AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! First of all phew, thank all of you so much for reading and liking Rules of Unity, I was honestly a bit floored. There are a couple of things I want to say about this one first before we can kick off:  
> 1\. This is a WIP. *scolds self*  
> 2\. This is unbeta'd! I should say this because it will probably show (so nervous *.*), if any of you want to be darlings and help out, please let me know.  
> 3\. This is a Pride and Prejudice AU, just because I was looking for something like this, thinking hey, dropping the modern adaptation back into the past is a brilliant idea 8D and I am a sucker for Austen. It will however have crime fighting! gay love! kissing! And Jim Moriarty! Basically all the things you missed while reading P&P. I am also delibertaely not trying my hand at any Austen-lingo but don't worry, they won't be tweeting each other.

_None but the lonely heart  
Can know my sadness  
Alone and parted  
Far from joy and gladness  
Heaven's boundless arch I see  
Spread out above me  
O what a distance drear to one  
Who loves me_  
\- Goethe

 

It was a summer's day how John Watson liked them best and of which there were few in Britain, hot and humid enough for moisture to prickle on your skin, and for beads of sweat to slowly make paths down your neck.

It would remind him of the sudden thunderstorms in the desert, leaving his uniform sticking to his skin and his eyes burning whenever a drop of sweat caught in his lashes.

On such days, John would open the window to the room he shared with his sister Harriet, fold up the legs of his trousers to his knees and then let his feet dangle from the window sill.

The air was heavy with the scent of rain, and the clouds loomed overhead, fat and almost black, ready to release a devastating torrent at any moment.

Beneath John's window, one of the servants was busy frantically trying to shoo the chickens back into their barn to save them from the weather, while another practically tore the washing off the clothes line in her hurry.

The Watson family was neither big nor rich and consisted only of Mr. and Mrs. Watson, John and Harriet.  
They had three servants working in a house of no more than three bedrooms of which one was a guest room, a dining room that could hold eight people at the very most, a small sitting room designed for even less, a small garden, a barn with eight chickens, five geese, an old pig, and a dog to guard it all.

They lived in the country and always had, and John could not imagine a happier life for himself, for he had experienced the anonymous bustle of the city, had seen the dark blue vastness of the sea and had defended his life on battlefields of India and the Middle East.

His home, this small house facing the sun, with the nearby pond and the trees packed with fruit in early autumn, was the loveliest place he could imagine, as it hid no bigger dangers than the occasional blind worm, and thanks to both his mother and his sister, the house was also never quiet.

"John! John! Oh, where are you hiding, boy?"

Never.

As his mother called him, her loud footsteps slowly reaching his hiding place, her voice grew shrill from calling out John's name.

"John!" She called one final time, by now probably aware that his room had to be the place to find her son considering the house was really not all that big, but her voice had this annoyed tone to it that told John she expected him to answer. Completely unwilling to give her that pleasure, John merely rolled his eyes when the door to his room burst open not a second later.

"Mother," John said and turned and swung his legs back inside, "You could have knocked. I could have been in my breeches."

"I am your mother. I fed you at my breast, do you really think I haven't seen you in your breeches before? Oh John, why must you vex me so? You are supposed to respond when an elder calls for you, this is not how I raised you! I had to search the entire house for you, high and low, and you know how that much walking affects my bad knee. You must have heard me, but you pretended to be deaf in order to torment me, you cruel boy!"

John sighed as his mother sat down heavily on the bed he shared with his sister and continued huffing for a few more moments as if refusing to catch her breath.

"Please calm yourself Mother, and let me know why you were looking for me," John tried, keeping his voice even and calm.

Judging by the look she gave him Mrs. Watson still seemed to be unhappy with him or at least pretended to be, but as soon as she started speaking, her entire demeanour shifted, giving John a very good idea of the subject he was to expect, as not many things excited his mother like this.

"I've just met Mrs. Hooper when I was in town to look for fabrics for the ball this Saturday, and you won't believe what she told me!"

John groaned inwardly.

"Netherfield has been let at last?"

His mother's eyes widened in surprise.

"Oh John! How did you know? Have you been keeping secrets from me?"

"I would not dare keep something as important as this a secret from you," John assured her and tried very hard not to sound as bored as he felt, seeing as it would be easy for him to predict the rest of the conversation as well.

Netherfield was a big estate not far from the Watson's house, and it was big enough that it could only be afforded by someone of substantial funding, or "someone rich and handsome" as Mrs. Watson liked to put it, both words meaning practically the same to her.  
Such people would often arrive from town and seek the quiet and solitude of the countryside for a while.  
Tenants would never stay for long however, upon finding out that such a thing as solitude hardly existed in a place where you were bound to instantly become the subject of every rumour and every bit of gossip in a town full of old ladies who had nothing better do than to spread it to their heart's content, and once their need for quiet had been sated, the visitors from far away would pack up and return to the excitement only London could offer.

Both John and Harriet had been through this time and again. As soon as someone would move into Netherfield, their mother would begin immersing herself in her sole occupation, seeing to the creation of as many opportunities as possible to marry either of them off to a rich lady or gentleman before they left again.

Just now she was busy methodically going through every piece of information acquired in a conversation with Mrs. Hooper that couldn't have been longer than a few minutes and John, despite knowing how futile it would be, decided to offer some resistance.

"Mother, must we? What if it turns out like last time? You remember the Andersons, don't you? You despised them and claimed several times we would have been better off without having made their acquaintance at all."

Mrs. Watson turned and grabbed both of John's hands.

"I am doing all of this for you! Can you imagine what a disappointment it was for me and your father when you returned from the war? Wounded by some barbarian in the desert! Unfit for service! We thought we had sent you off into the world for good, but no! You returned, and now I will do what I as your mother have to do for you, I will see to it that you are wed to someone suitable and are well off! Having children is no fun John, I was prepared for hardships in order to see to this goal, and the Anderson family was just a step along the way."

John raised an eyebrow and for a brief moment considered asking what exactly it was to mean when his mother referred to having children as 'no fun', distinctly aware that somehow she had managed to make this entire scheme his fault, but he then thought better of it.

"Mother, I receive an army pension..."

"Nonsense!" Mrs. Watson cried, swiftly cutting off his protest, "A gentleman can't live off an army pension!"

"...but he can live off his spouse?"

"Look here young man," his mother said, "You are making it sound as if your parents are forcing you to do something terrible when all we want is your happiness! We are going to have a look at this person, nothing more, so stop your childishness."

John lowered his head in defeat.

"Oh well then."

 

By the time John went downstairs to ask one of their servants for some tea and a bite to eat it had begun raining in earnest.  
He had just made it to the kitchen to look for the servant, when the back door swung open and his father came in, still in muddy boots, with his fishing rod swung over his shoulder.

"John!" he greeted, "Look what a rare fish I caught out at the pond today!"

He dragged Harriet in after him, the hem of her yellow muslin dress caked with mud, and her hair dripping wet.

"Harry!" John exclaimed upon seeing her, "The state of you! Where on earth have you been?"

"Clearly she is better at hiding from your mother than you are," his father said, a big amused grin on his face.

John let his shoulders slump.

"I take it everyone already knew about Netherfield being let, then?"

Both his father and his sister nodded.

"You probably sat in a tree when your mother was telling me about this, didn't you, Harry?" Mr. Watson asked her, still grinning.

When she didn't deny it, John yelled at her again.

"Harry, how often did I tell you about climbing trees? You are not a girl any more, you are nearly as old as me, how about you try to act a little more like a lady now and then?"

"Oh shut, up, Johnny," Harriet snapped at him and crossed her arms over her chest while her father picked a leaf out of her hair.

"Anyway, I am going to go and introduce us. I am just waiting for the rain to stop," Mr. Watson said, giving his children a look that was a mixture of repentance and lingering amusement. John's father was, as a stark contrast to his mother, amused most of the time.

John was convinced that his father, for all that he pretended not to care about most things that happened in their family or out in society for that matter, was actually the person who kept all of them together, and him sane most of the time.  
His father was understanding and approachable, and without him there would have been a lot more pressure on John who, after returning from the war, was neither the best match in terms of fortune nor age when his marriage prospects were concerned.  
His mother's expectations had always rested on him as the more level-headed one of her children, the one more likely to give in just for the sake of peace, while Harriet, beautiful as she might have been, never bothered to hide her contempt for the whole idea of marriage, and marrying just about anyone for wealth rather than love.

 

John disliked her sometimes for making it easy for herself, but he was self-aware enough to admit that joining the army might have been his means to escape that kind of dreary life.  
Love was nice and so was money, but at this point John did not really expect to come into possession of either any more.

 

Little did he know that the new arrivals at Netherfield Park would change his life in many extraordinary ways.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry for the delay but as I said, I was on holiday. Thank you very much for all your signs of encouragement <3

John gave up trying to hide his displeasure at the entire situation when his mother gathered him and his sister in the sitting room and forbade them from leaving until their father returned with news from Netherfield.

Harriet, who sat on the couch next to him, tried her hand at knitting, something John hadn't seen her do in a good decade, and the beginnings of what was supposed to be a simple sock looked vaguely indecent to him.

His mother sat in her armchair with a book, only that John was certain she hadn't even read more than a line or two, what with the way she kept glancing at the door ever so often.

Eventually Mr. Watson returned, looking altogether quite pleased.

"Sit yourself down, Mr. Watson!" Mrs. Watson shrieked at him and tried to drag him down into his chair by pulling his arm.

"Tell us every little thing!"

"Well," he began, "I didn't take notes like you suggested I should..."

John considered fleeing out of the open window, or pushing his fingers into his ears in order to ignore all this talk of rich men and women in the neighbourhood, but when he looked at Harriet he found that she had actually put her knitted abomination away and was listening intently, her hands folded into her lap.

She was interested, very much so.

"The new tenant of Netherfield Park is a delightful gentleman by the name of Greg Lestrade. He is a distant relative of the Earl of Grantham, and..."

"Enough of that!" Mrs. Watson interrupted him impatiently, gesturing almost wildly,

"Tell us what he looks like!"

"Ah, yes. I see that as usual, you wish for me to remark on a man's most important qualities first, my dear."

John tried to stifle a laugh, to little success.

His father stroked his bearded chin with one hand as if he had to think the question over first, when the real reason he did it was certainly just to heighten the suspense, and even John suddenly found himself to be ever so slightly curious.

"Well, his face matches his character. Mr. Lestrade made the impression of an open and steadfast man to me, healthy and energetic. His eyes are brown, his hair is grey..."

"His hair is grey?!" Mrs. Watson interrupted him once again, "Pray how old would that gentleman be?"

The look John's father gave her did seem to hold some admonishment, and John watched in fascination as his mother seemed to shy away, visibly trying to calm herself.  
Of course she knew that such a question was highly frowned upon by both women and men, and that her husband would thus never be able to inquire after it.

"I can assure you that he looks only slightly older than John."

"Oh for crying out loud, Mother!" John shouted and threw his hands in the air when she pursed her lips as if she wasn't all too sure whether such a statement could be a relief to her.

When Mrs. Watson urged Mr. Watson to tell them more, he gave a helpless shrug, obviously having nothing further to say on the subject of the man's appearance. When she still looked at him in a demanding fashion, he added:

"Oh, yes, of course! He has five thousand a year."

At this Mrs. Watson gave up any pretence of restraint.

"We're saved!" she cried, embracing her husband, "We're saved!"

 

As usual, Mrs. Watson's euphoria didn't last for too long, because shortly afterwards she found out that Mr. Lestrade had been visited by many neighbours with unmarried sons and daughters already, and that he had apparently brought a party of several men and women with him that was not entirely made out of his relatives.  
Her mood then improved again at the mention of Mr. Lestrade attending the ball that would take place the next day, and when she and Harriet decided to go to town to look for more fabrics and ribbons and whatever it was that women needed to adhere to the latest fashion, John was finally, blissfully, alone.

The clouds were dispersing, and John decided to catch the last, feeble rays of the setting sun, so he put on his sturdy boots and went out for a walk.

The now damp plains seemed to be steaming in the sunlight, and now that there was no one around, John rolled up his shirt sleeves and opened the first two buttons of his collar.  
Mist wafted through the air, making it even more humid than it had been before the shower, and John had to pay attention to not slip on his way down the hill.

He walked toward the horizon for a while, taking big steps to avoid getting caught in the mud.  
There was a magnificent tree on the clearing on which John now found himself, with a bark wide enough for two people to lean against. It was one of John's favourite past times to watch the sun set from here, despite it being largely obscured by clouds on this particular day.

He had just settled against the tree when he heard the sound of hooves approaching from the distance.

John turned his head and watched as after a few moments a beautiful black steed came into view from one of the many slopes, carrying a man who wore what looked like a black cloak despite the heat.  
When the horse came closer John could see how tall its rider was, and when the stranger turned his head, the orange and purple tinted rays of the sun seemed to catch in his hair, giving him something akin to a halo.

John was mesmerised.

The horse came closer before stopping just a few metres away from the tree. John and the stranger made eye contact and for a long moment just looked at each other, until the rider drew a bow and an arrow seemingly out of nowhere and fired at John.

Having been blessed with reflexes that saved his life more than once on the battlefield, John jumped to the side, only to discover that the arrow pierced the tree exactly where his heart would have been.

"Hey!" he yelled in a reaction completely devoid of any diffidence, and felt his muscles coil, ready to get the stranger off his horse if need be.

"You have good reflexes," the rider said, his voice a deep, velvety rumble.

"I beg your pardon?!"

The unexpected reply quickly drained John of all the fight he had possessed only seconds ago.

"I don't even know you! Were you trying to murder me?"

The rider pursed his lips.

"Of course not, don't be obtuse."

"Don't be..." Words rarely failed John the way they did now. "Well, you could have!"

The stranger extended his hand.

"Hand me the arrow, please."

John crossed his arms, mindless of how petulant a display it was.

"I most certainly shall not!"

The stranger sighed and got off his horse in a motion that John could even in his renewed anger could only have described as elegant, before stalking through the mud up to John, only to brush past him and yank the arrow out of the tree.  
Then he stopped and turned to look John in the face, ignoring the fact that the proper distance between two men should always be two paces unless they were acquainted.

"It was an experiment. We made eye contact, I gave you ample opportunity to move away and you did not. I am a busy man, I don't have the leisure to ride all this way out here and return having left business unfinished."

John, feeling quite flustered with such close proximity, pushed at the other man's shoulders, causing him to stumble backwards.

"You mannerless cave troll!" he shouted, "Do you have no sense of shame? I have never heard something so inappropriate! Are you implying I could have been killed for not being able to read your mind? Well a good day to you, and take my advice to watch your surroundings from now on, next time I lay eyes on you, I might just shoot _you_!"

John stormed off without waiting for a reply.

 

By the time he returned home, John was horrified with himself.  
For him as a person of the Watson household it was fair to say that he had encountered many infuriating situations, and yet he had never lost his temper the way he just had with a complete stranger.

At the same time, this was probably the most exciting thing that had happened to John in a long while, and he found himself silently arguing with himself over whether he was glad for the distraction or not.

As the day of a ball was always a busy day filled with preparation, Mrs. Watson shooed her children into bed not long after dinner, which gave John an opportunity to talk to Harriet about her uncharacteristic behaviour upon receiving news about Mr. Lestrade from their father.

"You said you would never," John murmured, lying in bed on his stomach while his sister loosened the braid she had one of the servants twist her hair into before she left to go shopping with her mother.

"I would never what?" Harriet asked from her stool in front of the mirror.

"You said marriage was nothing but an evil tool made to order you into submission, and that you would never let anyone confine you in that way, I believe."

When "hm" was all the reply he got, John turned to his back and sat up in order to be able to look at Harriet through the mirror.

"That's all? I mean, look at you going to town with Mother to buy a new dress and shoes that you definitely won't be able to climb a tree with later. Have you decided that Mr. Lestrade of Netherfield Park is going to be the man of your dreams now?"

"Of course not, don't be daft," Harriet said, but didn't elaborate.

"So what is it then? A trick? A lesson for Mama? Explain it to me so I understand!"

John felt himself become irrationally angry. Harry was impossible most of the time, but she was idealistic, and John used to be equal parts unsettled and fascinated by the way she would brazenly disregard any social convention. Now it felt as if their rules were reversed. John wanted her to rebel, wanted someone to do it in his place.

"What happened to love?"

Suddenly Harriet slammed down the brush she had used to comb the knots out of her hair with.

"I tell you what happened to it," she hissed, "I want out of here, too. You don't know me any more, John. You have been out and about in the world for years, and if it hadn't been for the injury, you would never have returned. You got it all, you know that? While you were away, my life stood still. I put up with Mama's moods and waited for your cryptic signs of life. I don't want to stay here any more, I don't want to do the same things until I die."

"I didn't go to India on holiday!" John shot back angrily.

"Even so!" Harriet gave back with equal force, "You would go back if you could! Maybe the life everyone wants me to lead is actually not that bad. A rich man to take me town, some guy that no one expects me to love. Do you even know when the last time was that our aunt and uncle took me to town?"

"That's your own fault," John said before he could stop himself, and his sister's face fell.

John believed in honesty. He believed that honesty was a matter of phrasing, but if the truth hurt, no nice words would ever change that.  
Harriet needed to hear the truth in order to realise that the dream of a better life in London would be nothing more than a dream if she wasn't willing to work on the real problem.   
A few years ago he wouldn't have had it in him to be the bearer of bad news, but he would never be his sister's protector, no matter how much he tried, and the realisation had left him weary.

"Your behaviour is unfit for the demands society has of people in the city," he said calmly, taking slow and measure breaths. He had lost his temper several times in one day already, and he would not lose it again and risk losing himself in the process.

"You speak to people in an unpleasant tone, you refuse to dress properly, and worst of all you have developed a drinking problem the last time they took you to town, and haven't gotten rid of it since.  
I know what you think, but it _is_ a problem. Your unwillingness to follow even simple rules will turn you into a sad figure before long, and don't you dare blame all of it on me just because I wasn't there to stop you."

Harriet, usually never shy to argue at the top of her voice and to make sure that she had the last word, just looked at John. She was completely still, her expression unreadable, and John knew he had done damage, for he had never seen her this way.  
He had crossed a line then, an invisible boundary between the two, and had yet to decide whether he felt sorry for doing so.  
He wanted to say something, anything, and opened his mouth to do so, but his sister just got up stiffly and got into bed, firmly averting her eyes from her brother and turning her back on him immediately.

John waited for some sort of reaction for several more moments, but eventually gave up and blew out the candle on his night stand, plunging the room into darkness.

It seemed as if all of his days were destined to end in a sigh.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is late, this is short and I'm sorry. Onwards!

The evening of the ball came without John and Harriet being on speaking terms with each other again.  
Their mother was far too busy on this day to pay attention to this and their father, even though he was a more observant man than his family gave him credit for most of the time, preferred not to get involved in their quarrels.

John told himself that he did not care, and that he had in fact anticipated such an argument a long time ago because arguments had been a common occurence between the two of them even before he had left to join the forces.

Still, in some situations it would have been nice to have Harriet as his ally. John didn't think of himself as defenseless or insecure, but she radiated passion and conviction, often enough so strongly that John felt he could literally draw from it.  
Unfortunately, his own caution and restraint were lost to her, even though it could certainly have helped her to draw from his example a couple of times.

In addition to this, John simply despised remaining in an argument with any friend or family member for long. Despite what Harriet thought, his going away had not been his way of escaping his former life, or at least not entirely. It had been many things: A test of courage and strength, self-discovery and even a service to his country that he was sometimes still proud of.  
John didn't usually bring any of it up however, as he knew that certain feelings were just too complicated to grasp without having experienced them firsthand.  
For all that he was proud of them, he tended to speak neither of his triumphs nor his losses, which had manifested themselves in nightmares that he expected to haunt him for the rest of his days.

Compared to that, going along with his mother's scheme to marry someone should have been a simple enough task, but it weighed down on John with its finality.  
He sometimes felt misplaced in society at large, thinking that what was expected of him was also expected of thousands of other people and should thus not feel like a burden, but somehow John still found himself searching - for what he wasn't sure.

All of his pondering over the course of the day had worn him out, and so he wasn't quite in the spirit to dance and be charming for a night, but everyone, from his mother to the servant that helped him dress, seemed to be excited about the event. Balls were the pinnacle of social life, and especially at public balls there were a lot of people to see and talk to, news to be heard and gossip to be spread.

John's mother was, as anyone could have expected of her, in very high spirits, and during the coach ride excitedly tried to give her children advice on how to turn heads at the ball while Mr. Watson next to her rolled his eyes good-naturedly at his children.

Upon arrival there where people his mother had to greet and introductions his father had to handle while Harriet went off elsewhere, and so John found himself suddenly alone and began roaming the halls.  
He found out soon enough that the highly anticipated Mr. Lestrade and his party had yet to arrive, and so for the time being the atmosphere was that of any other ball he had attended in the past, joyous and almost wild dancing contrasted by polite chatter of those who were waiting to be asked or who did not feel like dancing.

John had just returned from the dining hall with a glass of punch when a small hand touched his own and he turned to find himself face to face with Molly Hooper, his friend and confidant.  
She wore an elaborately embriodered green dress that John had never seen on her, and so he took the opportunity to compliment her on it, which made her twirl around for a moment, gifting him with a rare proud smile.

Mrs. Watson might have tended to describe Molly as unseeming and even grey, and while it was true that Molly wasn't of spectacular beauty and generally came across as shy unless someone took the time and offered her enough patience to become well-acquainted with her, John defended her virtues fiercely.  
Molly was gifted with amazing empathy and insight, maybe exactly because no one paid her much attention and such good qualities generally ended up being overlooked in a world dominated by money and upper-class politics John would never understand. It wasn't in her nature to be preoccupied with her own needs, and she was attentive and caring enough to be able to guess John's feelings on a subject. After having been friends for years, John was glad to discover that even in his absence nothing had changed this ability of hers, and so they had been able to reconnect quickly and as strongly as ever.

There wasn't much John could do for Molly. Sometimes he wanted to shield her from her world and all its hurtfulness, wanted to become the knight in shining armour that would clear the path leading to the fulfillment of herd reams, but deep down he knew that Molly did neither need or want him for that. She was stronger than she looked, and she took pleasure in small things.

"I see you too are ready to catch yourself a husband tonight," John said jokingly while he wriggled in his new and thus still fairly uncomfortable jacket and scratched himself near the collar of his freshly bleached shirt.

"Oh, you," Molly tutted and went about righting his clothing so John would at least not look as uncomfortable as he felt.

"You like gatherings like this. You like _people_ , remember? That's why you started training as a doctor and went out there to help. This is no different from any other time our mothers have dragged us to a ball to find us a partner, and there is no more pressure than any of those times, either."

Molly stopped fussing with John's collar to draw back and look him in the eye.

"So, what's gotten you so upset?"

"I can't put my finger to it," John said, going with honesty instead of pretending he didn't feel ill at ease.  
He then proceeded to tell Molly about the argument with his sister, and since he still felt ashamed for it, he eventually even decided to tell her about his encounter with the stranger at the clearing.

"It never gets dull with you, does it?" Molly said and patted his arm. "I have never seen a person who fits your description around here before. Maybe he is not from around here and you will never have to see him again? The hunting season does draw in all kinds of strange folk."

It was then that the doors to the town hall opened and the lively chatter around them instantly died down to a murmur when everyone tried to glance at the new arrivals. People in the front rows started passing on the word and soon it was evident even to those who could not yet see them that Mr. Lestrade and his party had just arrived. 

Seemingly out of nowhere John's mother appeared next to him to check the state of his clothing, making the lengthy process of fussing over him start anew.

"I know you are intent on ruining this just to spite me," she whispered, "But do give the man a chance."

"Did it ever occur to you that this isn't a bazaar?" John hissed back. "He might not even pick me. For all we know, the man could have no intention of becoming wed to anyone!"

John was all too aware that in comparison to other people, all the Watsons had to offer any potential spouse was love. It was as if he suddenly understood why love had been so important to his sister all this time: people like her, like them, flawed people, poor people but above all, honest people, needed love as it was the only good they still believed in.  
John had seen death, had fought in wars for causes he might not have understood and that no one had ever asked his opinion on, but he knew that money didn't make a good person, but after the disappointments the world had put him through, a good person was what he needed.

As the introductions were still ongoing and the party had yet to reach them, Mrs. Watson provided Molly and John with a sort of running commentary.

"Mrs. Anders says that the people who have arrived are indeed all acquaintances of his... There is a friend with him of yet unknown fortune as she couldn't catch his name---"

John groaned.

"...and two female friends that are in no way related to him, _very_ unfortunate."

"God help us," John said and watched Molly stifle a giggle.

While Mrs. Watson was busy trying to locate both her husband and her daughter, Molly's hand found John's and gave it an encouraging squeeze which he returned with a grateful smile.  
By the time the procession around the most important guest of the evening came to a halt near them, Mrs. Watson had only managed to drag her husbands away from the dining hall.

"Messirs!" she cried in a voice completely unlike her own, which made John contemplate stoically eyeing the floor for the rest of the evening, "It is such a pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh!"

The only person of his party that emerged from the sea of faces however, was Lestrade himself.  
They bowed to each other and Mr. Watson introduced his wife, John and Molly.

"I'll have to apologise for somehow losing my party on the way to you, dear Mrs. Watson," Lestrade said and looked genuinely displeased.

John found that Lestrade looked every bit as attractive and friendly as his father had made him out to be, but what was much more interesting was his reaction to Molly.  
John did not believe in something like love at first sight, but he had never seen two people look at each other the way those two did then, it was like slowly watching a spark pass, and John knew at that moment that he would probably never be a master of Netherfield Park.

"Oh wait, wait," Lestarde interrupted himself in conversation with John's father, "I think I spied my friend over there."  
He turned around and shouted.  
"Sherlock? Sherlock, where did you run off to, don't be rude. You have got to meet the Watsons."  
Lestrade excused himself to go and get his friend, and when he came back with his friend, John was unable to bite back a sharp gasp of surprise.

Never could he have forgotten those black locks and the man's equally black attire, let alone his sharply cut face.


	4. Chapter 4

"John?" Molly asked next to him, and Lestrade too seemed to notice the look John was giving his friend.

"Have you already made Mr. Watson's acquaintance, Sherlock?" he asked carefully, and John didn't miss the accusatory glare his mother shot him. 

The man looked straight at John, but it seemed more as if he was looking through him rather than actually paying attention and bothering enough to give any sign of recognition.  
For a moment John wondered if this was another attempt at making him uncomfortable. He could pretend not to know John, could make it seem as if John was mistaking him for someone else, and would thus never have to explain the strange circumstances of their meeting.

John suddenly and fiercely wanted to defy him, even as the memory of calling the man a troll made the colour rise on his cheeks.

"The circumstances we met under did not allow for formal introduction!" John burst out, causing his mother to look scandalised and Lestrade, to his astonishment, to roll his eyes.

"It seems I have to apologise for my friend, Mr. Watson," Lestrade said, and John very nearly gaped at him.  
"I probably also have to thank you for not disclosing the exact circumstances you found yourself in," he continued with a sidelong glance at Sherlock.

"I was working," Sherlock grit out, but Lestrade ignored him.

"Now then, let me finally introduce you... Mr. Watson, Mrs. Watson, John Watson, Miss Hooper... This is my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes of Bakersfield."

"Bakersfield!" Molly gasped, and John's parents also seemed to instantly recognise the name.  
John on the other hand had never been good with names. He always found better things to do than to immerse himself in other people's lives, and so he usually didn't know who owned what and who had married whom, and his mother would regularly admonish him for his disinterest.  
Molly's reaction however made the man seem more important somehow.  
He was more than a rude stranger now, he was a person other people recognised and were humbled by, a person people at the ball stepped out of the way of and whispered about, and John saw how this man ignored all of their extended hands and felt a spike of disdain flare up in him.  
Respect should be earned, and Sherlock Holmes of Bakersfield did not recommend himself to any of them.

"Tell me, Mr. Watson," Holmes said, looking at John, "Where is your sister?"

John raised an eyebrow at him, feeling slightly wary.

"How do you know I have a sister?"

"It's a trick of his he likes to perform," Lestrade said, chuckling.

"It is not a trick!" Holmes growled angrily.

"Yes, it is when you use your ability to impress other people."

"So how do you know then?" John tried again, which only earned him an appraising look.

"You smell really... feminine."

John felt himself blush once again.

"Excuse me?"

"You smell really sweet, and unless floral perfumes are a personal preference of yours, which I doubt, it is your sister's perfume, as your mother's perfume smells differently. Also you and your mother both keep scanning the crowd for someone, so it is someone who should obviously be here right now. Your relationship with your sister doesn't seem to be the best, as you immediately frowned when I mentioned her, did you worry I knew her because she has already gotten into trouble in my presence?"

Lestrade stopped him then to remind him that none of the things he was implying were exactly friendly, but by the way his mother had stormed off with a curt apology John knew she completely made up her mind about this person, and that at least no one would try to push him onto Sherlock Holmes in the near future.

To his horror John found that while his dislike for the man has certainly grown since their last encounter, he had to admit the man was pleasing to look at.  
It was what probably all people in his proximity were thinking, so he really didn't have to berate himself for the thought, an assessment really, made completely without any passion or intent.  
It was true that what this man was saying was against any proper decorum, but John found himself wanting to know more about how he could possibly be able to read him so well, and to make it seem so natural, as if John had already told him all his secrets out loud without noticing.

Too late did he notice that he and Holmes were staring at each other, and Lestrade took the awkward silence as a cue to ask Molly for the next dance and to lead her away.

"You don't have to apologise," John said after a long moment, blinking himself out of his reverie and making another attempt at conversation.

"I wasn't going to," Holmes replied and narrowed his eyes at him, not missing a beat.

John had guessed as much, but still felt his jaw clench at the coldness in the other man's tone.

"...What you do have to do, however," he went on with near visible effort not to give Holmes the satisfaction of letting him see how upsetting he could be, "...is explain yourself to me."

Holmes cocked his head at him in a wordless gesture of confusion.

"I want to know what you were doing that day," John explained. "You said you were working, and I am interested in the kind of work that might entail shooting arrows at unsuspecting people."

He tried to keep his voice as bland and free of accusation as possible, but Holmes' slight frown made it seem as if he had not entirely succeeded.

The other man's stare was starting to make John feel uncomfortable, having no idea what could have brought it on, this unblinking, slightly stunned gaze from pale blue eyes.

"I don't think it's a trick," John continued, feeling defensive enough under close scrutiny to finally avert his eyes, "What you just did, I mean. It's... ah..."

He snapped his fingers in an attempt to come up with an adequate word to describe Holmes' talent for observation.

"The science of deduction," Holmes said suddenly, and John's eyes snapped back up to discover that the look directed at him had positively doubled in its intensity, causing a flush of warmth to creep up his neck.

"That's what I call it. You see, people are easy to read. Behaviours form patterns."

John raised a hand.

"Fine, but... arrows?"

Holmes frowned, clearly unhappy at being interrupted, but he sighed a little and then said:

"I was investigating an attempted murder by a rider using bow and arrow."

"Who uses bow and arrow any more?" John interrupted him and couldn't help a grin, even though he was well aware how inappropriate it was to speak about murder in this fashion, attempted or not.

"Exactly," Holmes went on, completely unfazed by his reaction, "And because of that the shooter should be quite easy to find, assuming it can be found out what type of bow and arrow he was using. I took to shooting trees with different types of bows and arrows, from various distances, always on horseback, and when I saw you, another variable came to mind... The target must have squirmed away in a similar fashion but this was to be expected, so it is likely that the shooter did not calculate for this and was thus inexperienced."

John blinked at him in slight disbelief.

"You can't have thought about all this," he said, but he didn't sound convinced even to his own ears.

Holmes stepped up to John's side.

"Here, let me show you."

At that moment, all that John was really capable of thinking is 'Too close again', swiftly followed by the hope that if Holmes was as good at observing as he said, he did not notice John's sheer inexplicable nervousness.  
Holmes subtly pointed to his left.

The man, like most others in the ballroom, was dressed finely, his round belly protruding over his black trousers, straining the fabric of his shirt. His arms were short and meaty, he had nearly no neck to speak of, but his face was very distinguishable thanks to the mighty white moustache he was sporting.

"Look at the way one of his hands alternately rubs or rests above his stomach, the way he keeps glancing down," Holmes said in a low voice.

It was true, the man kept rubbing his hand over a spot near his belly in a circular motion, then stopped for a moment before doing it again. There were glances towards his hand or stomach, too, tinged with discomfort.

"He might have a medical problem of some kind, maybe an ulcer?" John guessed absent-mindedly.

"Very good," Holmes hummed, and he must have stepped closer, since John thought he was now able to detect a faint hint of pleased amusement in his voice.  
He shivered before he could stop himself.

"Note his other hand," Holmes said.

The other hand was clutching a crystal glass of punch that must previously have been cooled, as there were now beads of moisture dissolving and quickly running down the glass and dripping onto the floor.

"He must have been holding his glass for a while, what is so noteworthy about that?" John asked off-handedly, and shot Holmes a confused look.

Whereas this man approval would cause John rather unexpected jolts of pleasure, the way he now raised his eyebrows at John and pressed his lips into a thin line had an effect to the opposite that was just as strong.

"The observation is correct, but do try to keep up," Holmes said curtly, and as much as John wanted to bristle at his choice of words, curiosity got the better of him and he refrained himself from commenting.   
He might not have been a genius at this, but he noticed one thing rather quickly: Holmes actually wanted to explain his ability to him just as much as John wanted to learn more about it. Holmes wanted to make him see, rather than just understand, and while it might have been just a way to demonstrate his own skills or even test John's own intelligence, John was quite sure Holmes would not have done it to entertain just about anyone.  
John noticed it, the flicker in the other man's eyes, his glee at John indulging him, and while to everyone else in the room they might have just been holding the exact type of polite conversation that was required, John instantly found it much more interesting and stimulating than any chat about the weather could ever have been.

"He has obviously held onto his glass for a while, you were right about that," Holmes murmured,  
"But that also makes it quite clear that he has no intention of finishing his drink. This man is worried about his health, and distracted enough by this not to pay attention to what is said around him. In other words... He is here for the same reason you are."

Before John had any time to react, Holmes had stepped even closer, and the way their shoulders bumped as he lowers his head towards John's ear caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end.

"...Just keeping up appearances."

John jerked away almost violently.   
He had never been able to control his impulses unless it counted, unless people's lives were on the line, and if there was one thing he despised more than anything else, one thing he had been subjected to for as long as he could think, then it was people making assumptions about him, painting and incomplete picture of his motivations. It struck him that once again he had become the subject of Holmes' observations and oh, how unpleasant it was to find yourself on the other side of the fence.  
There was some truth to what the other man was saying of course, but John's choices could be explained by normal human empathy, something Holmes had already demonstrated his disregard of.  
He was a son only now learning how to please his parents, and a friend who wanted to protect his friends in more ways than just to keep their queen and country safe.

"I am not as simple as you make me out to be, Mr. Holmes," he said, and pride made his words leaden.

Holmes just looked at him for a moment, before blinking as if he had come to a conclusion.

"No Dr. Watson, I don't think you are."

Before John could say anything else, there was a loud crash outside, followed by the noise of people grappling. A few people turned their heads, the music stopped momentarily, but as soon as no more alarming noise was to be heard, everything quickly went back to normal.

"Work awaits," Holmes murmured and brushed past John without a word of goodbye, their shoulders and fingers briefly touching, and John's entire world seemed to turn on its axis and tilt for the briefest of seconds, leaving him disoriented and dizzy.  
He tried to see where Holmes was going, but this tall, dark haired man that should have stood out in any crowd had mysteriously disappeared and John couldn't seem to get his balance back.

"Poison," he thought for a horrible moment, "I have been poisoned", but then his rational mind came to his aid again.  
He was a medical professional. It was impossible to poison someone without food or drink, just by touching them. Impossible.  
John took a few steadying breaths and felt the life return to him.

He glanced over to the dancers and saw Molly, still with Lestrade, laughing at something he said while he swung her around, his smile bright and its a picture of such happiness that John couldn't do anything to stop the ugly sting of jealousy that pierced his side.  
Maybe Holmes had seen this and made a connection, with the way these two adored each other already there was no way their paths wouldn't eventually cross again, no need for goodbyes.

Suddenly John felt a little lonely and started to look around for his parents or sister, but upon finding neither of them, decided to get himself some punch, maybe there was conversation to be had near the bowl.

In order to get the hall with the banquet opposite the ballroom you had to pass the entrance, and John got to the massive oak doors just in time to hear a man say: "If you would only let me see her, she will recognise me and explain everything!"

These things were not uncommon, maybe a drunken brawl, a man yearning for his lost lover with no sense of when you had to give up. John didn't exactly care. He got himself a drink, but instead of joining a conversation like he had planned to, he stood by the window front and looked out into the darkness.  
He could see two shadows moving near him, and once they got closer the light from the hall silhouetted their faces. It was Holmes, together with a woman no less, who flinched back when he grabbed her by the shoulders.  
John was shocked by what he saw and was at the same time certain it couldn't possibly be what it looked like. Either way it was none of his business, so it was not as if he could have interfered even if he had wanted to.

Determined to at least pretend to have fun, John finished his glass in one long drag and then made his way back to the ballroom.

"May I?" he asked Molly, who looked flushed from both exertion and happiness, but accepted nevertheless.

"Where have you been all this time?" he asked as she held out both hands for him to take and drag her towards him.

"Watching you," John answered, which wasn't a complete lie, but of course Molly caught him out straight away.

"I saw you talking to Mr. Holmes."

John tried not to be defensive about it, Molly wasn't his mother, she wouldn't judge him that way, and suddenly John had no idea why he had tried to lie to her at all.

"Cheeky," Molly went on when he said nothing in return, "Were you exchanging secrets?"

John gaped at her in mock outrage.

"That position is yours and yours alone," he said, and meant it.  
They switch sides.

"He's rich, you know."

"Yes, people around me might have mentioned that once or twice."

Molly gave a startled laugh.

"And you aren't interested?"

"Not at all."

Sherlock Holmes might have been rich, but he was also very, very difficult to understand.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, look how old this is! I don't know who will believe this, but I have actually never forgotten about this, and during the last few days, I have written on this like crazy, so I have updates to post, people!

It was around 2 am when John's father informed him that his mother wished to leave, as one of the last guests to do so at that, which was always a sign for her having enjoyed the evening despite occasional (or even frequent) complaints suggesting otherwise.

John had danced with Molly and had been introduced to an played cards with some of Lestrade's friends, and even though he had not seen Holmes again at any point, this hardly caused him to wonder, seeing as it seemed like the man did not exactly enjoy other people's company.  
The man had probably left early.

It was then left to John to finally find his sister, hoping to God and the Heavens that she had managed to hold onto her drink and not caused her family any embarrassment they were yet unaware of.

Eventually he found her in the ball room, empty but for a few musicians packing up their instruments, and Harriet was animatedly chatting with a woman of such startling beauty that even John had to stop dead in his tracks for a moment simply to look at her, the soft flow of her wine red dress that matched the most peculiar shade of her hair、and the startling green of her eyes.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," John said softly, because he honestly was sorry, looking at how happy his sister seemed, quite a lot happier than he had seen her in recent times,  
"Harriet... our parents would like to leave."

"Oh," said the woman next to Harriet, "How time flies when you're having fun." She looked around, and John caught the way Harriet was looking at her, and suddenly felt most cruel for suggesting they go home. There was just a certain sparkle in her eyes that John had never seen before, but that he wanted to keep there even while he envied her for it.

"John," Harriet said, and her voice was smaller and softer than her usual deep rumble, "Can I introduce you to to Miss Clara Hendsworth."

John bowed to her and she gifted him with a brilliant smile before she curtsied.

"Clara, this is my brother John Watson."

"Are you--" John said and pointed between Clara and Harriet, his confusion as to how Harriet could use the first name of a lady he had never seen before expressed in his silence.

Harriet's ears reddened, but her acquaintance mere said "Oh no, we have just met this very evening, but we have talked for hours and now I can fondly say that there is not one person on earth I feel so close to, so it is only just that I offered her my first name to use."

"And out of courtesy I naturally did the same," Harriet added bravely, but John only raised an eyebrow at her.

"I'll give you time to say your goodbyes," John said, but the moment he finished his sentence, a banging sound could be heard that made every remaining person in the room flinch and make exclamations of fear.

John's demeanour changed, out of habit or not he could not tell, but he grabbed both women by a shoulder each and turned them towards himself.

"Listen to me now," he said and his eyes wandered from one woman to the other,  
"Miss Hendsworth, I will have to entrust you with my sister's safety. I want both of you to stay here, but stay away from the windows and the doors, do not leave this house until I come and get you, understood?"

They nodded at him, too shocked to do anything else.

John raised his voice to tell everyone to stay calm, and then left to see for himself what was happening outside.

"You probably thought it was a noble thing to do, that you would free her, and that the two of you could live happily ever after, but that's not how the world works, how sad for you that she actually wasn't waiting for your return all this time, isn't it?!" John heard Holmes shout, followed by an urgent female voice.

"Please Mr. Holmes, I beg you not to agitate him any further!"

John slowly crept through the doors and edged closer to the source of the voices with his back pressed firmly to the house's stone walls.  
He found Sherlock speaking to someone in the shadows, while behind him a woman knelt in the mud, her pink dress stained with dirt and the tears that kept streaming down her face. When John passed one of the windows, he could feel the leftover guests watching the spectacle from inside.

"It's over, Mr. Bernham," Holmes said, his voice a fraction softer now, "Give me the gun."

John hurried his steps. If he made it around the corner in time and unseen, he could...

"I'll kill all three of us! First you, Mr. Holmes, for thinking you could come here and make this your business, and then Daisy and me, so that no one can come between us!"

The man loaded his revolver with an audible clicking sound. John swallowed dryly. Only a few more steps...

"I fear something has already come between you," Holmes sneered, apparently unimpressed in the face of what could be death by the hands of a deranged man, "Mrs. Harley is with child."

"You're a liar!" Bernham shouted at him and pulled the trigger, and John was only close enough to Holmes to leap at him and push him to the side, when he felt something touch his arm followed by the warm trickle of blood.  
John could hear a multitude of gasps and screams from inside the house, but the loudest came from Bernham himself, who had evidently never shot at a person before and who was now nearing a nervous attack at the sight of blood slowly drenching John's sleeve.  
Just when John had enough clarity of mind to think about wrestling the man for his gun, an authoritative voice yelled for all weapons to be dropped and for no one to move.

John turned to see a whole group of police men coming their way, fronted by his very own sister and Clara, who held her by the ankle and strode up to them with a certain sense of purpose and no fear at all.

"I thought I asked you to stay inside!" John shouted at them, but a sudden throbbing pain caused him to clutch his arm and abandon his ire for a moment.

"I apologise," Clara said and did not sound sorry at all, "But seemingly we were the only ones to go and help when help was needed. Judging by your present state, you might understand my meaning."

While the police were taking the man with them, who by now had begun crying bitterly, and the general commotion of taking care of anyone and everyone involved began, John turned towards Holmes, who was like him still sitting upright on the pavement.

"Are you hurt?"

Holmes blinked at him.

"Am I--" He blinked some more. "You are bleeding."

John nodded. The pain had transformed into a steady throbbing, something he was used to. Something that told him he was still alive.

"Indeed I am," he answered, and found that he was smiling. Holmes stared at him incredulously.

"That... thing. That thing you just did. That was good." He averted his eyes for a brief moment, blind to the widening of John's smile.

"It was just a strife," John said, and repeated himself when he was asked by a police man whether or not it would be necessary to fetch a doctor.

People were led out of the house by the police, suddenly reminding John that his parents had long left, tired of waiting for their children to take a carriage with them, and thus leaving them to take a public carriage home with all sorts of strangers, a fate that John was used to, seeing as it used to be his task to fetch a persistently drinking Harriet from public amusement more than once.

It ended with John, Clara, Harriet and Holmes standing out in the cold, John having torn up his sleeve to use as a bandage and feeling thoroughly exhausted but strangely satisfied, happy almost.

"After all you have done for us tonight, the least we can do is take you home in our carriage," said Clara.

"Absolutely not," said John, "We will have to wait until he next public carriage crosses our way."

"John...!" his sister whined, but he resolutely ignored her.

"No, you know why it is not possible, people will talk."

A snort came from John's right, causing him to frown at Holmes. The man had been standing rather close to John's right ever since the police left, as if he was afraid that a mystery shooter would suddenly appear and it would be his duty to protect John.  
John would never have mentioned it, knowing that the man would never have appreciated being caught at displaying such sensitivity, if that was even what it was.

Now however, he looked just like the man John had met a few hours ago, and it was confusing.

"I beg your pardon?" John mumbled, not trying to give away how annoyed he was.

"As if after the events of tonight what people would want to pay attention to what carriage you arrived home in."

"He's right," Harriet chimed in, "People are going to talk about your bravery and--"

"Yes, they will," John cut her off, "...and they will also find the time to gossip about 'confirmed bachelor John Watson' to their heart's content. Mr. Holmes has formerly lived in London and is thus not acquainted with the way of the countryside as well as you are, and so far he has also displayed a remarkable disinterest in his own reputation."

"Confirmed bachelor?" said Clara the same moment Holmes said "I do not think I quite follow."

"It is an interesting story..." Harriet began, just as John raised a hand and hissed "Harriet... Harry, no."

Finally Holmes rolled his eyes.

"If it helps you, then I shall promise to personally disperse any rumour of unseemliness..." he stretched the word as if it was something of extremely bad taste, "...between us," and because John was not only tired but also cold, he finally agreed.

In the carriage Holmes continued to sit close to him, his surprising warmth almost lulling John to sleep.

John awoke after a very short rest after having snuck into his own home, a rest that had neither been restful nor dreamless as he preferred them to be these days, and he had been woken by the very thing he had come to expect: the voice of his mother rising in volume, shrillness and pitch, doubtlessly over the events of the past evening.  
With a little help from one of the maids John managed to clean his wound and apply a proper dressing, which he then hid under his shirt before he went to meet his parents and his sister downstairs.

"Have you seen how many dances Molly had with Mr. Lestrade?" his mother was asking Harriet when John entered the dining room, "To think that he would dancing so excitedly with a person such as her when there was no shortage of pretty women and men at the ball."

"I for one am very happy for her," John grumbled, then remembered his manners and wished everyone a good morning.

"We have certainly made a good acquaintance in him and his friends," his father said, but his wife made a face at him.

"Well, I could certainly have done without the acquaintance of a certain Mr. Holmes," she said and let Barnes, their second servant, help her to some cold turkey.

The breakfast went on in a similar fashion, with John noting in particular that his sister made no mention of her new acquaintance.

The peace John had already started believing in was abruptly over when their third servant arrived from the market, with another servant in tow, and a physician that was unknown to him.

"My name is Doctor Head," he introduced himself, squirming under all the incredulous stares he received, "I pride myself to be Mr. Holmes trusted physician."

John groaned, loudly.

"John," his mother asked, as slowly and cautiously as she was capable of being, "What is the meaning of this?"

"Well," Dr. Head continued, "Mr. Holmes confessed that after the events of last night he was concerned about Mr. Watson's well-being and asked me to visit."

"John?" whispered his father, in one of the rare moments where even he completely misunderstood.

John raised his hands in placating gesture. 

"Doctor, I assure you that no such thing is necessary, and I am deeply sorry that you have taken up the way to our house for nothing. If my father agrees, then you will be sent back to town in our carriage. What do you say, father?"

Mr. Watson only nodded dumbly.

The servant who had been in the room with them now finally raised his voice to deliver a message to Harriet from Clara, and once he had done so, John did his utmost to get all their visitors to leave.

When he came back inside, his parents where still sat down and staring at him as if waiting for an explanation is was undoubtedly his duty to give.

"Harold," John addressed the servant that had come from the market, "I know you must have heard what has happened at the ball."

Harold was still young and easy to excite, and so he was Mrs. Watson's first source of gossip whenever she was unable to catch it herself, and so he had heard about Holmes aiding an arrest and of John's injury, even though the rumours made it sound as if John had been an unlucky bystander rather than brave hero, an inaccuracy that stung him for reasons he did not want to think about.

Harold said no more, and so John simply breathed a sigh when his mother went on about John putting himself in danger for the sake of people he absolutely would not want to be owning any favours, or would have to accept favours from, seeing as she was strongly limiting his acquaintance with Mr. Holmes, but the servant looked at John as if he knew more, and his father wanted to be shown the injury, a request John grudgingly abided with. 

"Clara has invited me to visit her at Netherfield."

John shrugged at her. "We have just given the carriage away for Doctor Head, can't you wait until he returns?"

"Oh, I cannot bear to wait even a minute longer!" Harriet whispered, and a feverish blush spread over her cheeks.

John finally relented. "You will need to introduce her to our parents eventually," he murmured, "This is not proper. You know how long the walk is, but I also know you can manage. Stay on the roads to avoid soiling your dress. I will tell our parents you have gone into town yourself."

Harriet kissed her brother on the cheek and hurried upstairs to get dressed, and never in the life would he have admitted that for such a reaction he would lie for her as often as she required it of him, time and time again.

 

John sat in the living room reading a book when it began to rain.   
If he was honest with himself he had been half-reading it, due to frequent interruptions by his mother, which he was used to, but also because of his mind wandering back to the case of the previous night.  
No matter how much John tried to distract himself from it, he wanted to know everything about it there was to know, how it could have happened that Sherlock knew about other people's misery and knew how to solve it, and how the peace that had always persisted in their own suddenly seemed so utterly and magnificently shattered that John thought no more exciting things could ever happen in the city.

For the first time ever since his return from India, there were more interesting things than meeting people and evaluating their worth in terms of marriage, and the simplicity of it all, the possibility of an adventure, made John's heart beat faster.

Oh yes, he was going to give people more to gossip about, and he was no longer going to be the man who just stumbled into events on accident.

Without a second of hesitation, John put his book down, got his coat and headed for the door.


	6. Chapter 6

John admitted to himself that the way the butler at Netherfield looked at him with raised brows when he arrived at the door, drenched with rain, mud splashed to his knees, with a closed umbrella by his side like an afterthought, was completely understandable.

"My... my sister!" he huffed, "Has she arrived here? I would like to inquire after her if at all possible."

So of course he was let in, even though he could not have looked less than a gentleman, and was led into the most spacious living room he had ever led eyes on, which was occupied by Clara, who lounged on a massive sofa together with a woman unknown to John, Lestrade, who sat in an armchair to her left, and finally Holmes, who stood in the middle of the room, entertaining them with playing a piece on the violin, which was also why the servant did not dare announce John's presence until Lestrade's eyes fell on him.

"Good Lord, Mr. Watson!" he exclaimed, "Why on earth would you decide to share your sister's unfortunate fate?"

Holmes abruptly stopped playing and fixated John with a wide gaze from cool blue eyes.

"I'm... so sorry," John gasped, acutely aware of the water dripping down his shirt sleeves and onto the polished floor, "But I know my sister has been invited to visit Miss C-- Miss Hendsworth. The storm made me worried for her well-being, and so I saw no other way but to come here..."

Clara got up and took John by the arm and led him out of the room.

"My dear friend, of course," she said softly, "What trouble you have gone through for your sibling. Your sister arrived here a while ago and we were talking normally, and quite pleasantly I want to add, for some time, but then she became flushed with fever and began sneezing, and me and Mr. Lestrade saw it fit to put her into a guest room so she could rest."

"That is very kind of you."

"It's what any friend would have done. I admit had I known you were not in possession of your carriage at that point in time... clearly Harriet just tried not to be impolite."

John smiled at this.

"Do not worry yourself too much," he told Clara, "I am sure she wanted to see you just as much as you wanted to see her."

Clara kept silent but blushed delicately. She led John up the stairs and to the guest room, where it took a soft utterance of Harriet's name to rouse her.

"Are you here to tell me I was stupid?" Harriet asked her brother as soon as Clara had left the two of them alone.

John just shook his head. Harriet looked at him a while, before she frowned as if she had just solved a complicated riddle.

"John, what-- You are no better than me."

"To what are you referring?" John asked, but he could feel his ears heat up.

"First Mr. Holmes sends you a message, and now you have come here!"

"I am not here for the same reason as you are," John said, but Harriet did not look convinced.

"I know what you are thinking," he went on, "But it is nothing of the sort, I mean, you know what people said about him at the ball. He is apparently not the sort of person to care too much about others."

"This is what they say... But what I saw was someone sending you a doctor after you had been shot at, I am rather certain this constitutes as caring."

This time John did blush.

"Whatever you say. I am merely fascinated."

"Merely, you say? I have never even seen you remotely impressed before."

"Be that as it may, there is no harm in making a new acquaintance, is there. No one should judge any of them hastily."

"Just... be careful John, will you?"

He looked at her in silence for a moment.

"Are you honestly worried about me?" he asked eventually, and his sister huffed in annoyance.

"We do not always get along, but I do not wish any harm upon you, you know that much! Just... you have barely known this man, and have already found yourself in mortal peril. Maybe that is what you like so much, but our parents would not agree, and neither do I. I know I have no right to ask this of you, but please consider it."

John nodded, patting Harriet's hand awkwardly. Her words meant a lot to him, which was exactly why he was uncomfortable with expressing his emotions. They had not been close in along while, but maybe not all hope was lost.

John slowly made his way back, suddenly very aware of his sudden intrusion and wanting to leave as quickly as possible, seeing as he was not sure what he had been thinking, that he could stay over for dinner after making sure his sister was healthy? He now felt stupid, very stupid.

However, when he entered the main room , the unknown woman next to Clara gasped his name with an impatience as if she had been waiting for him all this time, despite the fact they did not even know each other.

"Oh hello, Mr. Watson!" she called and waved him over, "What a pleasant surprise. We have not been introduced before, but I have heard all about you, I could not wait to finally make your acquaintance."

"Only good things?" John asked, "Believe me when I say that I unfortunately know no one in this room well enough yet for them to say good things about me."

If anyone in the room was shocked at his utter honesty, they did not show it. Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Mr. Watson, let me introduce you to Miss Irene Adler, who has come here on Sherlock's invitation to stray with us for a few days. You know what they say, the more the merrier, and all of Sherlock's friends are naturally my friends."

John refrained from glancing at the man in question , and instead took Miss Adler's offered hand.

"Are you a..." he halted, momentarily searching for the right words. There was something about this woman that was so different from her hosts, a certain air of mystery that made her seem not unlike Mr. Holmes in some respect.

"Are you a family friend, Miss Adler?"

She smiled at him, slow and amused as if John had just made a particularly funny remark without being aware of it, and that, as well as the fact that she chose to ignore his question, he did not like in the least.

"Come," she told him instead, "Let us take a turn about the room."

"Why would we do that?"

Miss Adler outright laughed at him.

"Why, because it is refreshing, of course. It also offers us the best vantage point from which to observe and talk about everyone else in the room without being caught."

John looked over at Holmes, who was waxing his bow with utmost gentleness and care, seeming entirely immersed in the task.  
Suddenly he longed to speak with the man, missing the strange ease with which they had conversed during their first meeting, the sudden distance between them stifling, as it reminded John that they were in fact still nothing more than strangers.

"Very well," he said to Miss Adler and offered his arm for her to take.

She had seen him watch Holmes, and so as they stepped away from the others, Miss Adler asked John if he played any instrument himself. His reply was that unfortunately he did not.

"How curious!" Miss Adler exclaimed, "A gentleman from a good home who does not play? Did you lack a kind and patient teacher or did you even..." and she lowered her voice at this as if it were something that was simply unheard of, "Did you lack the talent?"

"If I lacked the talent I cannot say," John answered and looked at her steadily, "I did however show a talent for treating wounds and using firearms that I decided to make use of instead. I understand that this is of course in no way as entertaining as a good concerto, but I believe it to be almost as important."

There was a low chuckle that was quickly stifled, too quickly for John to determine its source, and when he looked around, everyone seemed to be busy with one thing or another, and no one seemed to paying them any attention whatsoever.

Miss Adler, who was just as intelligent as John and knew quite well when she was being made fun of, schooled her expression from a frown slowly back into a smile, nevertheless there was something about that specific smile and the way she said "Well, all of us are different, aren't we," that made John grow uncomfortable, and feel quite a bit offended as well.

"The country side is charming," she continued, "Who knows, maybe I should get a little house here as well. Would you show me around sometime?"

She patted John's arm and he stiffened, suddenly feeling a pair of cold blue eyes on him.

"Delighted to," he pressed forth and swallowed thickly. "So you came to visit Mr. Holmes here, not knowing what would expect you?"

"You must see, I do have a great interest in Sherlock's well-being," Miss Adler answered, and just when John was about to enquire further, they stopped abruptly as Holmes appeared in front of them.

"Please share our guest with all of us, Irene," he said, not wearing even a hint of a smile, but something made John relax instantly.

"I just remembered I still have correspondence with your brother to complete," Irene said and smiled at Holmes, "Would you like me to include your best wishes?"

"Absolutely not," was the answered, before pale blue eyes focused on John with an intensity that compelled him to let go of Miss Adler's arm.

"Are you staying for dinner?" Lestrade called over from where he sat, but John shook his head apologetically.

"I couldn't."

Lestrade raised both his hands to wave John's protests away swiftly.

"Please be our guest, and do also stay over night, it is already far too late for you to return, you should also consider a bath to ensure you will not suffer from any cramps from a walk as strenuous as the one you have undertaken. If you are worried, I will send word out to your family straight away. Tomorrow, when I hope for your sister to feel much better, we can return you to your loved ones."

John was not worried about his family at all. He rather thought his mother would be ecstatic knowing her foolish plan had worked out so well, but of course there was no way to explain such an atrocious thing in the face of so much kindness.

Declining again would have been rude, so John eventually thanked Lestrade for his hospitality.  
When he turned back Holmes was still watching him, thankfully John had never been one to fidget under close scrutiny.

"You have not come here because of your sister," Holmes observed, and John had a feeling that with time he would get used to the man making statements, rather than asking questions.

"Not entirely," he admitted, "I wanted to thank you. Personally."

Holmes ' eyes flickered to where the bullet had grazed John.

"I trust you are well now?"

John nodded.

"Yes, and you can honestly stop asking after it. There is however something in return that you could do for me."  
At the look of surprise he was met with, he hastily added "If you have no objections!"

"Continue," was all Holmes said.

"Please explain to me what happened. I would like to understand how you managed to come across and resolve the situation. I believe you planned for it to happen the way it did, at least some of it. I also believe..."

Here John stopped to take a long breath, something about the action making is miraculously more bearable to say something he knew he had no right to voice at all,

"...I also believe that you knew there was a chance you would get in harm's way, and yet you did not mind. You were genuinely surprised at my involvement."

Holmes seemed to contemplate this.

"Why did you do it?" he asked John, who just huffed as if the other man was being genuinely obtuse.

"I just did. It was what needed to be done."

"You do realise I could just give you the same answer to your question," Holmes said, but John was not as easily fooled as this.

"Why do you not want me to know?"

Suddenly Holmes stepped closer, close enough to drop his voice to a whisper and to only be heard by John.

"I would like to ascertain that you are able to face the truth behind my work. Behind knowing what it is I do and finding out more about it, danger may lie, a very real danger that I would in no way want to jest about. You may find that this idyllic country side of yours is not at all what you believe it to be, and so I am asking you, Dr. John Watson, would you like to learn more?"

Maybe at a later point in his life, John would be ashamed at not being able to hide his excitement for even a moment.

"Yes," he said, flushing and slightly breathless.

"Yes, I do."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was last updated in August, you guys! *sobs uncontrollably* I'm also sorry for John. *beats him over the head* His milkshake just brings all the boys to the yard, I swear.

John couldn't sleep. His sister, curled up in bed next to him, had been sleeping for several hours already, but no matter how many times he yawned or how he turned, sleep simply would not come to John.

He had listened to the housemaids potter around until eventually even they had retired, and other than the occasional sound of an animal outside the window, both house and farm lay in deepest quiet and darkness.

After John had told Holmes how interested he was into his seemingly casual attitude towards crime and his surprising involvement in it, the other man had remained cryptic, telling him he would find out very soon. By now John assumed Holmes revelled in his air of elusiveness, and he was almost angry with himself for having fallen for it like only a man would who lived in the country and had not seen much excitement since his time in the West Indies.

John was far from innocent, but he thought to himself how the idea of murder and mayhem occurring where he lived should be terrifying rather than exciting.  
He was just about to make a last desperate attempt at calming his thoughts enough to sleep when he heard something, a soft ticking sound from somewhere close by.

He sat up, slowly as to not wake his sister, who as usual hadn't even stirred at the noise, and listened intently.  
With the next time he heard it, John turned his head sharply towards the window, but it took him another instant to recognise the sound for what it was.  
Someone was throbbing pebbles against their window.

John clambered out of the bed as fast as the could, mainly because he could only think of one person who would want to get his attention at such an ungodly hour, and in such a peculiar way.  
John stood in the room in only his breeches for a moment, knowing full well he had to find something, anything to dress himself with. Deciding this was hardly the time to worry about propriety, John carefully and quietly removed his simplest linen shirt with no cuffs from his drawer and threw it on before he shimmied into his boots.

Before another pebble could hit the window, John opened it wide and found to his own astonishment that he was beaming at the man down below.  
"Mr Holmes," he whispered sharply, although the feeling of anger his tone was supposed to convey was entirely missing, "I would ask you if whatever you want to tell me could not have waited until first light, were it anyone but you."

"Come down," Holmes called back, sporting his own grin of amusement, "I need your help in locating several tracks, and right now the moon is at its brightest."

John would have considered jumping, but even in all his excitement he could tell it was too far a way down to not risk at least a broken ankle, and so he closed the window again and crept down the stairs while his family slept on, perfectly oblivious.

**

"Do go on," John said and fell into step next to Holmes, who immediately started walking in the direction of the wide fields surrounding them.

"A body has been found in the meadows near the church, you need to have a look at it in the morning," Holmes said and folded his hands behind his back.  
"I do not believe the death occurred here, however, so we need to have a look at the tracks left by carriages in the area."

"Why would someone dump a body here?" John asked, shuddering.

"Simple. Our officers of the law with their limited focus would immediately suspect someone living in the vicinity, rather than to look further."

They spent the next several hours getting thoroughly dirty whilst creeping through the grass and inspecting dusty roads for any tracks that Holmes deemed noteworthy, until it occurred to John what he was doing, and how soon the sun would rise to reveal his absence to his family.

"Why does this need to be done now?" he asked Holmes and wiped the sweat of his brow that had accumulated after hours of walking and bending down during the warm summer night.

Holmes raised a condescending eyebrow at him, but John held his ground.

"The regiment," Holmes eventually gave back curtly, "They are coming in tomorrow, and their arrival as well as the masses that will come to greet them for no discernible reason will destroy any evidence that is to be gained here."

"Oh!"

Pale blue eyes narrowed at him.

"Why do you look so delighted?"

"I had no idea," John breathed, his smile widening.  
"It is really quite late, I think I should go."

"Why are you suddenly in such a rush?" Holmes asked him, his whole posture speaking of suspicion. "You were not so eager to leave a moment ago."

John did his best not to fidget. Secretly it pleased him that Sherlock Holmes, who had shown such aptitude at reading people before, seemed to have absolutely no clue as to what excited him, but he knew his reluctance to share it would make the other man only more determined to find out what John was hiding.

It was in no way a secret unfit for sharing, it was simply his own reaction to the news that was inappropriate. Oh, why had his mother not imparted the news to him before?

"I need to be home before the maids rise," he said sternly, hoping his insistence would cause Holmes to drop the subject for now,  
"I can't be seen running around like this with you, I have a reputation to protect."

The look on Holmes face immediately told him that he was being tedious, and that there was no way he had succeeded in deceiving him.

"Keep your secrets then," he said, his petulant response as unexpectedly endearing to John as it was exasperating.

"I promise I will still go with you, should you call on me."

"Why would I call on you," Holmes mumbled, and this time his response drew a hearty laugh from from John.

"I will see you to, then."

**

Just the moment John swung his legs back into bed, his sister peeked at him.

"You smell of soil," she rasped, voice still heavily laced with sleep.

"I took a walk. I couldn't sleep."

Harriet snorted at him.

"You were gone for hours. " At his incredulous look she added, "Well, do not look at me all disbelievingly, the bed simply grows horribly cold when you're not here. How goes your illicit affair?"

She laughed loudly when John whacked her with a pillow.

There were a lot of things John felt like asking her then, why it felt so exhilarating to meet someone in the dark of night to look at a bit of mud, if she had missed him all the while the bed had grown cold with his absence, or why no one had told him about the return of the regiment, as she without a doubt knew all about it, no one was better informed than their mother when it came to such things.  
John asked his sister absolutely nothing.

**

Holmes had been right of course, the people had arrived in troves to welcome the soldiers back home, and by the time John and Harriet arrived with their mother, they could hardly see the procession for the mass of people that had already gathered.  
Harriet, for all that she had sworn to not be interested in the slightest, waved her handkerchief just as enthusiastically as the other women did, making John think that is was more the change of pace that excited her rather than the actual event - and the promise of a cool drink afterwards. John himself felt ready to leave, already envisioning a shaded spot on the meadow where he could read a book and maybe catch up on the sleep that had eluded him the night previous , when he suddenly heard a deep voice call out his name.

He looked left and right, but the mass greeting the soldiers seemed to be made up almost entirely of women, but suddenly a big hand grabbed his wrist before letting go just as quickly.  
John couldn't believe his eyes. Quickly disappearing back into line was a broad shouldered man, his gait aided by a wooden cane, but otherwise just as strong and handsome as John remembered him.

"Major Sholto!" he cried out, unable to help himself, and was rewarded with a smile.

"I shall call on you this afternoon, John Watson!" the major called back, then he was gone.

After this meeting, the meal in town and Harriet's insistence on going to shop for yet another dress where unwelcome, unbearable wastes of time, filled with John persistently dodging every question about the major thrown his way.

"I haven't seen you this excited in along while," his mother tutted, and while Harriet did not echo the sentiment, she threw meaningful glances John's way now and again.

Once back at home, John gave up every pretence of doing something useful until their butler entered , announcing a guest.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Sir."

John's face fell at the announcement. He had completely forgotten about his promise to Holmes.

"I was told the body will be moved today," Holmes already announced in the hallway before he had even clapped eyes on John, and Mrs. Watson looked about ready to explode at his obvious lack of greeting.

"It is imperial that we--" Once he reached John and took in his uncomfortable posture, he stopped speaking abruptly.

"You weren't expecting me at all."

It was then, with John still fishing for an appropriate answer, that the butler returned once more and announced the arrival of one Major Thaddeus Sholto, who came in bearing - good grief - a bouquet of flowers.

"Papa, Mama, Harriet..." John said, helplessly ignoring Holmes for the moment, "This is Major Sholto, who served with me in India."

A quick glance in Holmes' direction made it clear if looks could kill, both John and the Major would already have exchanged their last pleasantries.  
As it was, Sholto handed the flowers over to John, causing his mother to nearly sob in delight and his own cheeks to flush a shade of rose impossible to hide, which only worsened when Holmes suddenly stepped up to John's side, put a hand on his shoulder and nearly growled.

"All this is well and good, but John is needed in a mater of utmost importance, so I am certain you can have some pleasant conversation or whatever it is people do in a situation when a guest announces himself without ascertaining the visited has no priorly agreed upon engagements, and I shall take him with me."

John froze, and so seemed everyone else in the room. Holmes blinked at him.  
"Oh for heaven's sake, what?"John swallowed thickly.

"You just called me John."

Holmes looked at John a bit uncertainly then, while the other was acutely aware of the warm hand slowly leaving his shoulder.

"I..." Holmes, usually such a forceful, charismatic presence in every room, opened and closed his mouth a few times before giving up on trying to form a sentence, and sharply turned on his heel to leave first the room and then the house without another word.

"Excuse me, I.. .I'll just..." John stammered, then quickly ran after him.

"I'm sure you could solve the murder all by yourself!" he called after Holmes. "I was sure you just wanted to humour me because I asked you to show me."

Holmes stopped, but did not turn around to face John.

"Oh, certainly," he said, and with nothing further to say between them, he left John behind.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, thank you for your kudos and kind comments. This one is a bit shorter than the others and I hope that's not too annoying, I struggled quite a bit in bringing this to you (you know, as to not post with a 10-month delay between chapters again *fail*)

Weeks went by without so much as a trace of Holmes.  
John and his family even took a dinner invitation from Lestrade that by necessity was extended to the major, and John was not completely without hope to see Holmes there once again, but the man was absent.

When John asked after his whereabouts, Lestrade told him with no little amount of uneasiness that his friend was still working on the murder case with singular focus, and that he had not been seen by either him or any of the house staff for several days, which meant he had likely not slept, either.

John felt tremendously guilty at the news and could not help picturing all the ways in which he might have assisted Holmes to bring the investigation to a speedy conclusion, and his pondering did not go unnoticed by his sister, even while she found herself deeply in conversation with Clara.

When everyone vacated the dinner table and little groups of people talking in private, smoking or playing cards started forming, she drew her brother to her side, all the while keeping her eyes on the people around them.

John could smell the alcohol on her breath.   
She had quite likely overindulged, but he knew a lecture on such behaviour might would not only be unappreciated, but would only serve to have a detrimental effect on the good relationship they had managed to establish.

"Major Sholto has called on you every day for the last two weeks," Harriet said, making her brother frown in annoyance.

"I don't mind your bluntness at all, thank you for asking," he gave back irritably, which only earned him a pointed look.

"He is good company, we have a lot to catch up on."

"Did he... back in India, did he make you a promise?"

John snorted.

"Of course not, you do not promise anything if you cannot even know whether or not you'll make it home alive."

"Well, you are alive now. Do you think he might want to... you know, make up for it someday?"

A heavy sigh.

"Yes, you relentless beast, he may want to. Not that there ever is much of a point in me finding out."

At Harriet's questioning frown, John reluctantly went on.

"He is a soldier invalided out of India, you saw his cane. He has no more surviving relatives save for a distant aunt, and since he was not born a gentleman, he now lives off an army pension. The only one of the two of us who would improve his fortune by marriage is him, and once mother gets over the initial shock that someone is showing genuine interest in me, she will see this, too. She will never allow it."

"What about you, Johnny?" his sister asked, and the long forgotten nickname hurt him more than anything else. He guessed he looked just as miserable as he felt.  
There was no point in telling his sister that something was missing in all of this. 

John always thought it would be simple to settle back down into a normal life after his return, since he had never been the type to require much, and he had found joy in even simpler pleasures like sleeping in a bed again after India, things he could still appreciate anew each morning.  
After thinking he would die, after feeling his hot blood seep down his shoulder and into the sand, with nothing but the ringing of gunshots in his ears, John had relearned how to relinquish the small things.

Escaping the reaper however had put a few of John's wishes into perspective.   
He wanted, needed to feel like he was able to fill a gap in another human being. He wanted someone to feel passionate about the idea of spending the rest of his his life with him, someone whose connection would have a chance to run deeper than the shared dislike of the same author.  
He wanted to give as much as he could give and be able to feel needed in return.  
Thaddeus was a good man, loyal and always anxious to make John happy.  
Yet he was nothing but a shadow of the man John had met years go: injured, disillusioned, tired, the same way John could have ended were it not for the constant nagging of his family and friends.  
The major was a good man, but he was also...  
John shied away from even thinking the word . He was no Sherlock Holmes, able to point out another's flaws without even a touch of guilt.  
It was however, an irrefutable truth that while he could not yet admit it out loud, John yearned for someone to truly cherish him.  
He had only himself to blame.

"I know what you're thinking," Harriet whispered and grinned.  
"It is a peculiar choice but he did call you John after all... And only the people who fell like you belong to them would dare to be this presumptuous."

**

Within John, hope and disbelief had a fierce battle.  
As much as he wanted to believe Harriet, Holmes' behaviour had puzzled him, after all it had been his dismissive attitude towards John that made the other feel like any case could easily be solved without his input.

This was of course not an excuse to stand him up like he had, but John had no idea how to apologise without sounding like he was presuming too much about why Holmes wanted him on the cases in the first place, why he couldn't just call on John like a normal human being.

Another potential problem was that for someone who had just met Holmes a couple of weeks ago, he has become very loyal, very quickly, and whether it was due to fascination or charisma, he could not tell.  
Holmes had made no advances on John of any kind, yet the way he had behaved the last time they met spoke of some sort of attachment, unless John was gravely misinterpreting things, which with a mysterious creature such as Sherlock Holmes, was of course always a possibility.

John became so occupied with solving this problem he eventually turned irritable, his answers snappish whenever someone dared to penetrate his concentration in any way, and it took a visit from Molly to righten his mind again.

"It seems I have persuaded Mr. Lestrade to organise a ball for us," she told her friend over tea, who did little to hide his surprised splutter.

"You don't even like balls," he said indignantly, "It's one of the things we bonded over a long time ago."

Molly nodded thoughtfully.

"Very true, but so very little happens here and I wouldn't want him to..." She squirmed, blushing furiously, prompting John to rest a calming hand on her shoulder.

Secretly he thought that in a town which had apparently become the new favourite corpse dumping ground for murderers more went on than was usually observed, but of course he could not in good conscience tell Molly such a thing.  
What he said instead was:

" He is not suddenly going to up and leave because he gets bored. The whole reason for people from the city to come here is to take a break from all the excitement they usually face, he told me so himself."

"Well, if the stories are to be believed, then you have more than enough excitement yourself," Molly retorted, and John could feel his temper rise, hoping that at least one person would not hold his confusion against him.

"Your sister has been tattling, making it sound as if there are a whole flock of admirers going in and out of your house."

John sighed in irritation. if there was one thing his sister was truly good at, then it was sprouting outrageous versions of happenings that were based in truth, a habit she had developed while feeling excessively creative and drunk.

"Hardly" was all John said at first, but as so often, he felt the need to elaborate and defend himself.  
Due to their usually none too exciting lives, John and Molly had always tried to live voraciously through each other, even though it slowly became a rather one-sided affair.

"Do you remember Mr. Lestrade's friend, Mr. Holmes?"

"You mean that rude fellow at the ball with a penchant for turning pleasant conversation rather awkward?"

John had to laugh at that - after all it was quite true.

"As it turns out he has more remarkable talents than that. Harry likes to read things the wrong way, but when I say that he is a fascinating man, I really mean just that."

Molly quietly contemplated this for a moment.

"Well, if you want to become good friends with him, then I will accept him as not entirely disagreeable... merely peculiar."

After they shared a good laugh, John had to promise Molly to attend the ball as to not abandon her on the battlefield, and he secretly welcomed a bit of distraction.

**

John and Molly had spent a pleasant afternoon together, after which John droned his thoughts out with working his hardest, nearly putting the maids and helpers out of employment, yet once all his chores were done and night stretched across the sky like a dark blue blanket, he found himself wide awake while his sister snored beside him, oblivious to his troubles.

Just when he started to feverishly wish for the sound of pebbles hitting glass, something more remarkable took place: John heard his first name being called by the very man who had used it last.

He was up and in his clothes in an instant, because the shouts continued and grew in their intensity, soon sounding almost frantic, an state John had previously not attributed to Holmes at all.  
All of the commotion was accompanied by the tell-tale sounds of someone running through the surrounding meadows at an uneven pace.

As John jumped down the stairs one of the maids was already lighting candles around the house with a sense of urgency very much alike his own.  
He opened the door and broke out into a full sprint, not for a second minding or even registering the lack of shoes on his feet, but very determined to meet Holmes halfway.

Whatever John had expected to see upon reaching the other man, it was certainly not the sight he was greeted with.  
Sherlock Holmes, with his hair dishevelled and his trousers splashed with mud, held an old terrier in his arms that barely breathed.

"I--" he began, then stopped himself, seemed to contemplate, and finally said:

"I poisoned him."


	9. Chapter 9

Anyone inclined to enter the Watson household, as lonely as it sat on the hill, would have been greeted by the picture of John rushing around frantically, spreading out cloths, shouting for hot water, all the while keeping up an angry rant that had the great Sherlock Holmes stuck somewhere between sheepish and disgruntled, while his family looked on as if it was a perfectly normal occurrence to welcome a sick dog and a strange man into their midst in the early hours of the morning.

"Why in God's name would you poison a dog?"

"I--"

"No, don't tell me, I do not wish to know, not in the slightest. Why would you even bring it here?"

"I thought---"

"I am not even qualified to treat animals!"

Holmes looked more and more impatient with each time he was interrupted, but he did not argue.

Finally John stood still, looking wearily at the dog and the man holding it.

"I trust you brought him here as quickly as possible?"

Holmes nodded, watching quietly as John took the dog from him.

John murmured a few words to the dog, then placed it on the table, where it lay on his belly with some difficulty.  
He then instructed Holmes to help him pry the dog's mouth open, with the other man did willingly, but with an open show of disgust.

John then fed the dog several teaspoons full of salt, then offered it some of the water, which it drank in between loud coughs.

Then he turned to his family.

"I apologise for Mr. Holmes. It is evident he could not think clearly, and I am sure as soon as the appropriate situation presents itself, he will repeat this apology. For now all we can do is wait, so maybe you should go back to bed?"

John's parents stared at him somewhat dumbly, and in the end it was Harriet who not only persuaded both them and the servants to go back to their chambers, but who also picked up the retching dog and took it outside.

As the adrenaline slowly seeped out of his coiled muscles, John was strangely grateful for her interference, but it allowed him to sharply focus his anger on Sherlock Holmes, and anger that surprised him with both how sudden and how hotly it flared up within him.

"I have not seen you in weeks," he said quietly, but fiercely.

"God knows where you went, creeping after murderers in the dark. I mean, you made it quite clear my assistance was not required, nor my acquaintance appreciated---"

"I have never said such a thing!" Holmes interrupted him, and when John looked up at him from pacing around in the kitchen, steely grey eyes rested on his own.

"You needed no help to convince yourself of this, without consulting with me whatsoever."

Momentarily confused but unwilling to let go of his anger, John shot back: "Well, you certainly did not give me reason to believe any differently, if you had just once called on me it would have been a tremendous reassurance."

Holmes raised an eyebrow at him.

"You seemed... quite occupied."

John felt himself flush hotly, a stark contrast to how the rest of him felt in the chilly kitchen.  
He could not shake the notion of having been chastised, even though Holmes had no such power over him, and quite frankly should not even be speaking thus, seeing as John had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of... But he was, God how he was.

He cleared his throat.

"The dog. Why would you poison your dog."

"It most certainly is not my dog," Holmes replied, as if the mere suggestion was ridiculous.

"Concentrate on the part of the question that is currently of import, if you please," John shot back, and Holmes swallowed and seemed to contemplate for a moment.

"I... took samples of the soil the victim was found on and also the tracks we studied. I performed a few simple alchemy procedures but I had to be certain."

John motioned for him to go on, his brow raised and his stomach twisting in knots as he feared his face was already giving away his growing dread he felt.

"This dog is just an old stray that has been shuffling around..."

"...So you decided to test a poison on it," John grit out angrily, unable to contain himself.  
"You thought no one was going to miss him and wanted to satisfy your curiosity---"

"I am trying to solve a case!" Holmes cried, similarly agitated. He stepped closer and in the light of the candles John believed to see something almost pleading in his eyes, pleading for John to understand, to see his side.

John studied him for a few awkward breaths. He could be honest enough with himself to admit that part of himself was still angry at Holmes for just leaving him behind, whether he had deserved it or not. He had just never expected his own anger over what was essentially a triviality to be quite so... intense.

In the distance, Harriet was shuffling through the grass quietly. A breeze ruffled the trees. John shivered.

It was Harriet, who finally couldn't seem to keep out of the conversation any longer.

"We could keep him," she said quietly while she walked over to one of the cupboards to retrieve a large bowl.

"Excuse me, I just wanted to get the dog some water," she said faux-innocently when John gave an almost violent start, and tilted her head at her brother, a silent nudge.

"Why did you decide to bring the dog here?" John asked Holmes, acting as if Harriet had never spoken.

Holmes, who had been watching Harriet with narrowed eyes, bowed his head and growled in frustration.

"What difference does it make, I was---" 

He met John's eyes and his mouth snapped shut immediately.  
John could hardly believe what he saw, the slow realisation on the other man's face, the fractional widening of his eyes when he understood the real question John asked him.

Holmes was a man perfectly capable of solving crimes by himself. He had shown clear disdain for the company of other people and yet he was back at John's doorstep.  
This was not about a dog.

"Sentiment," Holmes mumbled, gritting his teeth as if the word itself caused him physical pain, searing like acid up his throat and over his tongue.

John could not have stopped his smile had he tried.

**

After another very brief attempt at sleep, John left the house before breakfast to walk into town.  
The dog lay on the cool kitchen tiles when he left, sleepily blinking open an eye when he opened the door, weak and dry-nosed, but evidently still alive.  
John felt a soft flicker of affection for the animal, and even a tiny bit of pride at having used his skills once again after a long time in order to save a life.

Having been abandoned by Sherlock Holmes had nearly driven him to marry the first man he came across, and while Major Sholto was an honourable man in every respect, John was deeply ashamed of himself for having led the man on in any way, when the simple truth was John felt no love, not even the slightest inkling of passion, towards the man who had been changed as radically by civilian life as he had been himself.

John needed to feel useful, but he was done looking for his fulfilment within the arms of another.  
That was why he directed his steps towards his local clinic, where he was going to offer his services.

He stopped when Netherfield came into view, its marble pillars painted golden by the first rays of the slowly rising sun, its meadows lush and damp with dew.  
John had often looked upon the stately home just as he did then, and it felt almost foreign to imagine it bustling with maids and butlers within, preparing the first meal of the day, lighting the fireplaces and helping their lords and ladies dress for the day.  
From the outside it looked as calm and untouched as John remembered it.

He thought about a house similar in name, that waited unused and unappreciated while its owner resided at Netherfield.  
He had not wasted many a thought on what Bakersfield might look like, just as he made no assumption about Holmes' fortune.

What he could not help contemplating however, was why Holmes preferred to spend his time in such an unspectacular place when the big cities in the north, none of them far from the Lace District where Bakersfield was situated had to be positively brimming with crimes for him to solve.

The sound of a horse swiftly approaching him across the meadow tore John from his reverie.

"Mr. Watson!" the rider greeted him, and John recognised Lestrade wearing a heavy black cape made for riding.

"It is a surprise to see you here, but what a pleasant surprise it is."  
He came to a halt next to John and unsaddled.

"Are you taking a morning walk?"

John smiled at him.

"Actually I have errands to run."

Lestrade hummed in acknowledgement.

"You are certainly no stranger to hard work, how good of you. You and Sherlock will end up giving men like me a bad reputation!"

He laughed merrily at himself, making John suddenly glad he met him.

"No such thing," he gave back, "You are up and about right now, are you not?"

"Indeed! It is my wish to distract friends such as you from their work with mindless entertainment, and thus I am going to order some services for the ball I will hold very soon. I do not exactly crave them myself, but your friend Miss Hooper insisted... Well, far be it from me to be a spoilsport!"

John wanted to shake his head at the both of them, but he settled for smiling even wider and telling Lestrade he looked forward to the event as well.  
After his offer of accompanying John was declined, the older man bid his friend farewell and soon was only a distant dark spot down the road.

It seemed Holmes' absence during the night had gone unnoticed by his host, or Lestrade would have mentioned it in some way, John was certain of it.  
Then again, maybe what had transpired was a detail not as important to the case as Holmes had made it seem, yet somehow John wanted it to be.

There was danger in this, the simple wish to fully insert himself into someone else's life and conversations after such a short time had passed with merely a conversation having passed between them that did not include murder, mayhem or anything else socially unfavourable, but John began to realise how boring the social accepted topics of conversation were in comparison.

He had not outright asked Holmes to join him again and was suddenly anxious he would simply be forgotten once more, no matter how much he clung to Holmes' admission of sentiment.

Not many people were in town yet when John reached his destination, it was mainly servants making their way from shop to shop, but John was glad to not meet any acquaintance to whom, unlike Lestrade, he would have to explain his visit.

Even the clinic was empty when John entered, the only person in the hall being a nurse sweeping the floor with slow, precise strokes before sneezing delicately.

She declined John's offer of his handkerchief gracefully, but showed him through to Dr. Head with a smile when he inquired whether the doctor was available.

"Dear John Watson," the doctor said, "Not another accident, I hope?" John shook his head, then realised the man sitting at a heavy wooden desk before him, surrounded by instruments and notes, must have come to this conclusion because John looked every so slightly nervous about the request he was about to make.

"Is it always this quiet?" he asked as a way of easing himself into the topic, but the doctor laughed at him loud enough to make his grey moustache quiver above his lip.

"You are just exceptionally early. Give it less than an hour and this place is going to be packed to the brim with people coughing and groaning left and right. Why? Whatever is the matter, my boy?"

Dr. Head, despite being slightly too young to act fatherly towards John, had helped John enter a profession, sharing his knowledge of where to find training and helping John convince his parents, and so over the years a bond between the two men had formed that led John back to the small town clinic whenever there was no one else to talk to.

In what he was about to ask, John saw a way to repay the doctor for all of his kindness, and with this in mind suddenly felt a lot more resolved about what he was going to say.

"I wanted to make you an offer. I would like to help out if you would allow me to. Of course I would do this completely free of charge, but I really..." 

He trailed off and let his eyes wander, a terrible nervous habit.

The frown was expected, after all John knew he was persistently diminishing his own reputation as a gentleman by first becoming a captain and a doctor, and then even persisting to look for employment.

Suddenly however, the doctor's frown gave way to an expression of gratefulness.

"If you are quite certain," he said, "I really cannot afford to turn you down. I do not have to tell you that it will be nothing like being an army surgeon, but you would be doing your community a great service, a great service indeed. Just make sure you don't feel obligated to do it. You don't owe me, John.”

John smiled.

“No,” he said firmly, “I do not.”

Thus he settled into employment the very same day, listening to people's worries and aches all morning and afternoon, oddly content not to be facing any near-death situations even though there were a few elderly people he would have to keep a sharp eye on come winter.

He had just finished tying a cast to the leg of a young boy who had fallen out of a tree, when John was met with an entirely unexpected visitor.

“Major!” he gasped, still busy puttering around with gauze and salves, “How did you know how to find me here?”

“Word travels quite fast when there is a new, handsome doctor taking patients,” Sholto laughed, and with a pang John realised that while he had been running from his problems, it had taken them just half a day to gain ground on him.  
He would need to talk to this man, in private, to turn him down and apologise for leading him on, before---

“Someone in my regiment expressed an interest in meeting you, I know it is not much but perhaps you could join us for dinner in the barracks...”

“That is a very kind offer,” John interrupted him, “But I really have to stay here, and...”

“Oh, I have already spoken to your mentor. He said it would be no problem for you to leave now, seeing as you have helped him during the busiest part of the day.”

Finding himself completely overruled, John could do little else but follow the major to the local barracks, where a makeshift canteen had been built under a large green tent which fit several rows of benches and chairs at which soldiers were eating what looked like mutton stew with mashed potatoes.

“Sholto!”

A young fellow waved at them from his seat. He did not seem particularly memorable in either statue nor face, but he had big eyes of a brown so dark they almost seemed black, and his body language radiated confidence right down to the grin he greeted them with.  
He did not look like someone built for the army, but then again, John noted with a scowl, neither did he.

“John Watson, this is James Moriarty,” Sholto introduced them. “Let me get us some food.”

He stepped away, and John took a seat on the bench opposite of his new acquaintance.

“I was told you had an interest in meeting me?” he ventured carefully, not sure where the conversation would head.

“Oh, yes.”

Moriarty's grin this time served to make John slightly uneasy.

“I was really eager to meet the man who has Sherlock Holmes so fascinated.”

John tried to keep his face neutral.

“You know him?”

Moriarty nodded vigorously.

“We go far back, Sherlock and I. You might say we were like brothers once...”

“He's never mentioned you.”

“Why, does he seem the type to... mention others a lot?”

John glanced away at this, thankful to see the major arrive with their food.

“I can tell you more if you are at all interested,” Moriarty whispered, his eyes not leaving John's for a second.  
John wanted to curse the man. He had to somehow know it was dreadfully simply to rouse John's curiosity, especially in regards to a man who seemed to be tight-lipped about his personal life.  
Had John given him enough opportunity to speak for himself? Was this not simply a sign of John himself being impatient?

He left the offer unanswered, turning to his food and less mysterious conversation.

**

John tried to inconspicuously hurry through breakfast the next morning, having told neither his parents nor Harriet of his new occupation yet.  
He was trying to avoid an argument, he told himself, when the unexpected pleasure of having something all to himself, uncommented by his mother and in no way dissected my his sister, might have been the real reason behind his reluctance.  
Their new dog, named Gladstone by Harriet, lay under the table by his feet and snored softly.

“Yesterday when you were out Mr. Lestrade came to pay us a visit and extend his invitations to a ball at Netherfield,” Harriet told him, seeming extraordinarily pleased to convey the message, so much so John didn't have it in himself to tell her he had already been aware of Lestrade's plans.  
“There was no mention of whether his friend Mr. Holmes would be in attendance,” Mrs. Watson added, “And I hope he will stay far far far---”

At that moment the footman entered the room, surprising them all.

“A Mr. Holmes to see Mr. Watson,” he announced, nodding towards John, but before anyone could offer to invite him into the dining room, John shot up from his seat.

“I shall meet him,” he said, hastily wiping his moth with his napkin before throwing it on his plate.  
“Excuse me mama, father.”  
Feeling his master get up, Gladstone stirred, only to speedily leave his place from under the table to meet the new visitor.

Holmes had waited outside, apparently equally as eager to meet John's family again after recent events as they were to see him.  
He was pacing, causing his horse great distress.  
It would have been quite a sad view, had Gladstone not taken to running wide circles around both Sherlock and the horse, wagging his tail wildly.

“Sherlock?” John called him, unthinking, and the speed with which Holmes reacted to his given name caused a fevered blush to spread over his face immediately, which he tried to hide by lowering his head and shuffling his feet, clearing his throat once, twice.

“I...” Holmes hesitated.

“I came to tell you the case is solved. There are still some things I need to do, but I wanted to make sure you wouldn't think ill of me for not involving you further this time.”

John had to chuckle.

“I shall take my leave for a few days to investigate loose ends.”

“Will it be dangerous?” John asked, suddenly anxious. Holmes only raised a mocking eyebrow at his concern.

“Hardly. I do not anticipate any complications.”

John nodded.

“That's... that's good then.”

Holmes gave him a curt nod in answer, then made motions to get on his horse. Once he was in the saddle, John looked up at him one more time.

“Will you... Will you be back in time for the ball at Netherfield?”

Holmes froze, clearly he had in no way expected the question. He stayed still for a few moments.

“Would you share the first dance with me?” he finally asked in a small voice that had John grin despite himself.

“I did not take you for someone who would enjoy a dance,” he all but giggled.

Holmes pressed his lips to a firm line.

“It would appear you are mistaken,” he said, sounding oddly petulant for a man his age.

“Good Lord, I am going to be late for work!” John cried, and made to dash away, but he stopped himself.

“I am accepting your offer, Mr. Holmes. Please take care of yourself. I shall be expecting you.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I was just alerted to the fact that AO3 messed up my chapters and that stuff was missing, so I had to repost the last two chapters. Everything should be in order now and if I'm not mistaken we are now at 10.

The day of the ball arrived soon after, with John being busy with work and dodging any questions after his personal life.

“You need to talk to the major,” Harriet observed drily, as she watched her brother swap the moss-green waistcoat for the dark blue one yet again. There was nothing extraordinary to John dressing himself without the help of a maid any more. While it was certainly another thorn in his reputation as a gentleman, men that go to war dress themselves and feed themselves and bandage themselves, and certain habits you do not simply abandon after your return, especially when they are of sensible purpose.

“You need to tell him there's another.”

“That's not the reason.”

Even as he examined himself in the mirror, John could tell his sister was rolling her eyes at him.

“Oh? You mean the way you parade around, trying on all of your clothing is a normal ritual I have until now simply failed to observe?”

John turned around to frown at her.

“No, I mean... He's not made me any kind of offer.”

Harriet sighed unhappily. “John, this is just avoidance. Don't lead the man on.”

“I'm hardly leading him on simply by spending time with him. I'm allowed to have acquaintances that prefer inspiring conversation over the prospect of murder.”

“...and started to work at the clinic because you are clearly looking forward to the quiet life of a house husband so much.”

John turned around fully, his expression one of alarm.

“Don't tell me our parents already know?”

Harriet shook her head, but she did not look convinced.

“Not yet, but they will.”

“That is fine, I plan to tell them, I simply want to do it myself. Please Harriet, just for one evening, do not make things hard on me. Just enjoy the company of the woman you have taken a liking to.”

John's sister gave another tremendous sigh, but argued no further. 

“Leave the blue one on,” she suggested, “And wear the black shoes with the silver trimmings.

Harriet exited his room shortly after in order to see after their mother, who had been squawking with excitement all day, wondering how many dances Harriet would be asked to partake in, while John wondered whether or not much excitement would worsen her drinking, as it was prone to do.

He himself was increasingly feeling as if he tried to juggle the demands of the life he was supposed to lead with what he wanted to achieve for himself, and it began to frustrate him.  
The people he had met so far at the clinic had been appreciative of his help, and he hoped no one would stay away simply to spite him, as he knew that without a task, any sort of task, the only thing waiting for him was boredom, and blackest depression soon after

Hell, even Major Sholto, with his face burnt and his gait unsteady, had returned to the front nonetheless. Would someone like that really want to settle down at all?

John believed in what he had told Harriet. Of course he recognised the signs of growing affection within himself when it came to Sherlock Holmes, even though this could most likely be chalked up to the other man's enigmatic character and his similarly unconventional looks.  
There was no harm in admitting to it in the privacy of his own head.

John decided to pick Molly up so she wouldn't have to take a public coach. There were frequent whispers about the state of her family in town already, what with her father being sick and her mother mostly tied down with Molly's five siblings, all younger than her.

There was no fortunate to be had for any man who married her, and she was no great beauty, but she had a pure heart, and he hoped this was what had drawn Lestrade to her.  
John was more critical of himself, he thought himself sarcastic and occasionally bull-headed, but having witnessed a war had stripped him of his pride, the thought that in a world where people shot each other over riches that belonged to no one, and people were being held as slaves, his opinion should count for anything.

With a sharp curse he realised he would rather have accompanied Holmes.

When he knocked at the door and was greeted by Molly instead of the Hooper's butler, who was old and often got the evening off after helping the children get to bed instead of a governess, he knew she could tell, but she gifted him with a graceful smile.

“I understand,” she said without him having to breach the topic, as she sat down next to him and the carriage set off once more, “We are at an age where deep musings assault us out of nowhere. That's why we should go out and indulge in a bit of mindless dancing.”

When the both of them returned to the Watson's house, John's family still seemed in no shape to leave, so by the time all of them made it to Netherfield, not only were they later than what could have passed as fashionable, it had also gotten cold and rainy, a heavy fog wafting through the woods of the estate.  
It was clear that this weather would stop any remaining guests from attending, and thus it was with barely masked regret that John found that Holmes was neither amongst his circle of friends nor anywhere else at the gathering.

Seeing as Molly and his sister were immediately whisked away for dancing, John found himself in the slightly awkward company of Sholto who, due to his leg, did not dance, even though he assured John several times he would have loved to, seemingly to appease him.

After a while during which they chatted amicably about John#s new line of work, the major seemed flustered by the new topic he wanted to attempt, opening and closing his mouth several times and wringing his hands.

“John,” he finally began, his voice almost too quiet to hear over the sounds of music and people talking animatedly, “I have been here for a while now. I have spent much of that time with you and I have enjoyed it... very much...”

The grip of panic on John's inside was sudden and fierce. Surely this was not the time nor the place for this sort of talk? He knew he would have to turn Sholto down in front of many people if it came to it, but the words to do so gently were not prepared, and they would not come to him now.

“I am sure you have felt the same way, and I am so glad for you that you have found your way back into this world, which I know can be hard. I was... am impressed by you, and this feeling grows... how should I say this?”

He paused, his eyes roaming the hall, the musicians, anything but John.

“What I'm trying to say is...”

A gunshot rang through the music and the conversation, leaving only shocked silence in its wake.

When asked by the police later, John would describe his thoughts on the events that followed in two words, “Not again”.  
He knew beyond a doubt that only a person with uncanny dramatic timing such as Sherlock Holmes would manage to be the centre of attention, and most likely violence, at a public gathering for a second time.

Even more astoundingly, he was sure Holmes himself had not even considered the peculiarity of his own affairs.

“Someone needs to take a horse and fetch a police constable in town!” he called, already on his way outside.  
He had to push and elbow his way through gawkers, everyone who had a clear view on the proceedings mumbling fearfully, but even that could not prepare him for what he saw.

Sherlock Holmes was kneeling outside on the muddy porch, bleeding from a gash near his temple.  
His arm was outstretched, and he looked at a small item in his opened palm which John could not identify from the distance.

He was held at gunpoint by figure wearing a large cloak meant for braving bad weather, clearly someone who had to be outside in any sort of condition. His shoes were worker's booths, made from heavy leather.

“Is that how it went with all the others?” Holmes asked the man, his voice devoid of any fear, instead sounding genuinely curious.

“None of the others had the opportunity to run from me. Now take it.”

“There is no point to this now, you have been cornered, soon the police will arrive.”

“There is a certain satisfaction in you no longer being able to brook opposition...”

“I know this was by no means your idea. You do not have the means. Maybe it will help your sentence if you tell me who set you up to this.”

“You speak as if you have any sway over that,” the man growled, “Enough talking, I'm going to count to three, and if you haven't drained the vial's contents upon me reaching one, you know what happens.”

Holmes and the man stared at each other briefly, then he began the countdown.

“Three...! Two...!”

Suddenly the man went down with a sharp cry of pain. Those who stood closest cried out reflexively at the small knife now protruding from his back and the blood quickly gushing from the wound.

“Should we not do something?” a woman wondered, “Save his life so justice can be served? We need to help him now!”

“We need a doctor!” shouted another guest.

“I know someone! Send for Doctor Watson!”

“What do you mean, 'Doctor Watson'?” cried Mrs. Watson, the commotion about a dying man all but forgotten to her.

However, as much thoroughly as the search was, in the ballroom and on the balcony, in the dining room and even near the servant's quarters, John Watson could not be found.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quickie! Things might take an angsty turn from here on out. Thank you all for reading and commenting, especially those of you who have stuck around through the YEARS that this lay absolutely dormant. I just really wanted to say that. Thank you.

It was not until the police had rounded up every attendee who could have witnessed the incident that someone noticed John, or rather noticed the racket his mother made when he tried to gently but sternly admonish her.  
Everyone had been asked to wait outside until called in for questioning, thus it was fortunate that the rain had slowed to a light drizzle. The people no longer needed where getting 

“No one is going to marry you now!” she wailed, “A gentleman! Working as a doctor! In full sight of everyone!”

“You're right,” John shot back, “God forbid I do something useful to help others.”

“We let you go to India, thinking you would recognise the futility of your endeavours... I had no idea...”

“Mother, stop it!” John cut her off sharply, his frown deepening with his thinning patience, “This is not about me. This is me telling you, because Father is avoiding to do so, that you cannot act as a front row spectator when there is a person wielding a gun! I would also like to make clear that--”

“John.” Harriet, who had been trying to soothe her mother by patting her arm somewhat awkwardly, was the first to notice the tall man stalk towards them.

“What--” was all John managed to utter before Holmes dragged him away, below one of the shadowy eaves of the estate. Then, without another word, he let go of John mustered him silently from head to tow, his expression half-obscured by darkness.

John was just gathering breath for the tirade he felt was well-deserved when Holmes narrowed his eyes at him.

“Where have you been?”

John all but deflated in his confusion, opening his mouth once, then a second time, with nothing helpful coming forth. Eventually he decided to risk his theory.

“Did you lead this man here so I would help you, when it would have put less people in danger to just take me with you?”

“Hardly anyone but me was in danger,” Holmes countered, “As I informed him, the police was on its way, it was public gathering with nowhere to hide, and he most likely knew so when he got me there.”

“What do you mean, 'got you there'?”

“He was a coach driver. He had been poisoning people in need of his service, dumping their bodies afterwards. That's why we always found wheel marks near the bodies, nothing special in and on itself, but together with the ground samples I took, which had retained traces of poison...”

“So you had confirmed the man to be a murderer and still try to tell me he would not have been a danger to others? What were you thinking?”

Holmes glanced away briefly. John could not have sworn by it, but the other man suddenly seemed somewhat... abashed.

“To answer your first question, his ultimate target was me. This man used to be a butler on my parents' estate, which now belongs to my brother. When my parents died, my brother decided to release some members of staff from their duties, which put this man and his family under financial strain. Killing me was meant as a sort of... revenge. He was convinced he had nothing to lose.”

John stayed silent, a sudden sadness gripping him, choking every other question he might have had.  
In all the exhilaration of the hunt he was ashamed to admit to himself he had forgotten how behind every murderer, there was a human being, rather than a monster devoid of moral and decency.  
Despite what he had done, John felt pity for a man who had thought murder his only resort.

“As to your other question...” Holmes paused for so long that John raised his eyes to him again, before pulling him back into the light coming from inside.

“What is it?” he breathed, shuddering at how soft his own voice sounded.

“I did promise you a dance, after all.”

John could not help himself, he laughed.

“You did not honestly think you could somehow shake off a murderer and be back in time for the waltzes, did you?” 

Holmes remained steadfastly silent, but the slightest tinge of pink spread over his pale cheeks, a complexion John soon mirrored.

“I...” he began, but suddenly Holmes pinned him once again with his unrelenting stare.

“Where have you been?” he repeated, continuing when John did not supply an answer immediately.  
“Just now, where have you come from? To your parents you claim to have been looking for them, but you were flushed, your heart rate was elevated, and last time you were in a similar situation, you did not even break a sweat. The lower seams of your jacket are evenly discoloured with moisture, and there is a muddy patch on one of your knees.”

“You know how bad the weather has been,” John told him.

“The coach driver was killed with a chef's knife,” Holmes continued, unrelenting.  
“Unless someone carried one in their jacket, it must have come from this household. It hit him precisely where it was meant to. How many of the guests here today possess that sort of skill, what do you think?”

“Probably not many.”

Holmes groaned in obvious frustration.

“Seriously, John...” 

“Don't! I will not give you the answer you seek. I cannot keep doing this, Mister-- Sherlock, I cannot continue in this fashion. My mother is perfectly right, in making my employment a public one I have squandered my chances in attracting any suitable match, and I did not care about doing so when I did, because I was hopeful... certainly overconfident... I had found someone whose affections were mine. Do you appreciate me, or my aim? Do you trust me, or the skills I acquired on the field? I am a person, Sherlock, not a weapon you can wield.  
Mr. Lestrade and Molly, my sister and Miss Hendsworth... They act out of genuine affection for one another, and everyone can see that. I am neglected, Sir, maybe because my own imagination led me to hope for something you had no intention of giving.”

The speech left John breathless, heart beating out a relentless rhythm, while his hands balled into fists out of their own accord as he belatedly began to feel ashamed for all the truths he had just confessed, to Holmes as much as to himself.  
Holmes however, still stared at him uncomprehendingly.

When nothing seemed to be forthcoming, John turned sharply away in order to not let the other witness his disappointment.

“I must be going,” he mumbled, hoping his voice did not sound quite so choked.  
“Goodnight, Mr. Holmes.”

Determined not to spare Holmes even one more glance, John returned to his family, ready to pretend none of this had ever taken place.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone and Happy New Year! did you watch the Abominable Bride? What am I saying, of course you did.  
> This fic has now narrowly surpassed my wee babe Rules Of Unity in hits, which makes a small-timer like me really happy. Thank you!

During the next few weeks John declined any and every invitation delivered his way to visit Lestrade or any of his other friends, which pained him immensely, seeing as he thought the other man good company, always kind and mainly preoccupied with the health and happiness of others.  
Several times he even nearly accepted, especially when his sister, who still went to Netherfield regularly in order to visit Clara, tried her utmost to persuade him.  
He felt as childish as she accused him of being, especially when Holmes continued to be present, even though Harriet often reported he looked as if someone had put a spell on him to make him stay within the room when in reality he would have enjoyed nothing less.  
“That sounds like him,” John would say and then quickly retreat before he did something silly, like admit he did miss Holmes' quips about other people somewhat fiercely. He now was not only avoiding his sister and her tales of how splendidly her relationship seemed to progress, but also his parents, as his mother had sworn not to speak another word to him for as long as he kept insisting on being occupied. John knew she would not be able to keep it up for much longer, seeing as it had been several weeks and she had already been caught turning to him as if wanting to include him into conversations more and more often. It would make John quite lonely, like a self-imposed exile he was too proud to return from, rather than the general disconnect he had experienced before he had made all these new acquaintances. He simply could not regret having been honest to Holmes. It had been a big confession, at least for his standards, and it had left his heart hollowed out for the lack of reaction it had produced. The longer he had to ponder on it, the more John talked himself into having misinterpreted Holmes' curiosity in his person. Maybe he should have known professional curiosity was all the other man ever felt for other people around him. Just like a blue-eyed idiot, John had mistaken slight interest for something else entirely, and now he was left to suffer the consequences, slowly hiding all these new feels back in the secret place they had come from, in order to continue his unremarkable life.

Those friends he was left did continue to drop by the clinic, however, and so he would often be treated to light luncheons prepared and delivered by Molly herself, or have a chat with the major or increasingly often, James Moriarty, to whom he felt slightly guilty for not showing the slightest interest in his conversation, previously thinking somewhat odd and unpleasant.  
Amongst pleasant conversation, James, as John was allowed to call him, made it quite clear he did want to tell John about his connection to Mr. Holmes, despite John wanting to put such talk firmly behind him. He came to the clinic one day while John and Molly were together and had just finished eating and suggested a light walk. John did not want to be rude and just send him home, but made it clear to Molly, largely by looking at her pleadingly, that she was not to leave him now, and thus she invited herself along.

Jim Moriarty was a small man, one who did not seem at all built for war, quite the opposite to Major Sholto, who was broad in build and always paid intense attention to his surroundings, never seeming quite at ease, as if someone could sneak up on him in a surprise attack at any moment. Yet there was something in Moriarty's eyes, something that told John he was a man who would not hesitate to do what needed to be done, and it was a feeling John understood all too well.

“We are going to ship out quite soon,” Moriarty told him. “My, you look so surprised I'm now certain the Major has not told you, even though he was quite resolved to do so himself. He is quite fond of you, I can tell, but he is just as perceptive and knows when his endeavours are quite hopeless, and so he has decided to join one more time.”

John was saddened by the news, as sudden as they were. It certainly seemed Major Sholto had tried his best to simply delay any more reason for his friend's mood to turn gloomy, and John felt an irrational stab of dislike for Moriarty for not being gifted with the same temperament.

“Don't look so glum!” he continued, giving John a friendly pat on the back, while Molly took her friend's hand silently, “It's only France, mind you, not somewhere near the end of the world like Nassau.”

“Indeed,” John replied tonelessly, and Molly shrugged slightly and squeezed his hand in a show of support.  
“It's the reason why I came, I need to tell you about Mr. Holmes, as a parting gift. Just a bit of advice to you, my friend.” John could not discourage him, because the truth of it being his last chance to hear what Moriarty had to say had him suddenly longing to hear it.

“What I am about to tell you I shall tell you not for the sake of idle gossip,” Moriarty went on calmly, “I simply wish to save you from any misconceptions about Mr. Holmes' character, which I am quite aware is a fascinating thing to behold for many. As someone who once called himself his dear friend, his brother even, I ought to let the truth be known.”

Thus he began his tale, and it was a dire one indeed, for it began with nothing less than young James Moriarty growing up an orphan, who was found and taken in by the Holmes family, from then on living a life of comfort in Bakersfield.  
As he was roughly the same age as the young master Sherlock, they were home schooled together, and James also learnt how to accompany his violin lessons on the piano. Both Sherlock and his brother Mycroft did not seem to have any friends in the nearby village, Mycroft because he was a big child who could not keep up with the other boys when running and fighting, and subsequently lost interest, and Sherlock because he had trouble making friends sharing his interests and thus gave up on it despite his mother's gentle prodding, who would send him and James into town together to help the butler run errands.  
Sherlock Holmes had struck up only one tentative friendship, with a boy named Carl Powers, who did however prefer Moriarty's company.  
There was one game the three of them used to play regularly, because it had the added excitement of doing something forbidden. They would go to the forest on the Bakersfield grounds and play hide and seek , the only rule being that if one of them wasn't found, the game had to be stopped at sunset as not to worry anyone.

“We were only children, so we did care much about any potential danger, but one such day we played hide and seek and Carl never returned. After looking for him ourselves we involved our parents, who even made up a search troop with people from the village, but to no avail. Sherlock was so torn about this tragic accident that he started blaming me, quite publicly, for Carl's death, as him and I were the ones hiding that day.”

“But you were only a child!” Molly exclaimed as if unable to hold back any longer. Moriarty nodded sombrely at her.  
“Well, Sherlock persisted, and refused to spend any more time with me from that time on. When his parents eventually died, he became the sole owner of Bakersfield, since his brother at that point owned several large estates elsewhere and had no interest in it, and thus he gave me some money and refused me any further entitlements to any Holmes title or house.”

“I cannot believe he would do such a thing,” John said quietly, but he doubted, oh how he doubted.  
What he found harder to believe was that Holmes, no matter what age he had been at the time, would make such accusations without proof, but who was he to bring something like that up, decades after the fact?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are into multifandom tumblrs, [yep, that's me... I have one of those trash heaps.](http://msrinrin.tumblr.com/)


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